


Gone

by BulletproofTrash



Series: Strangers and Angels 'verse [12]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Dogs, Fake Character Death, Gen, Ghosts, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Temporary Amnesia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-07-24
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:42:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 51,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27671528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BulletproofTrash/pseuds/BulletproofTrash
Summary: Dean thinks Sam is dead. Sam has amnesia.So, this is set pre-deal, sometime in season 2. Strangers and Angels 'verse.
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester & Original Character(s)
Series: Strangers and Angels 'verse [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2019070
Comments: 3
Kudos: 17





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This work is a repost from [Gone](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/4419801/1/Gone) by user [reading](https://www.fanfiction.net/u/443241/) on fanfiction(dot)net
> 
> Credits to this work and all the works in this series belong to them.

Jo Sweed pulled a load of damp towels out of the washing machine and shoved it into the drier. Slamming the door shut, she cranked the knob on the control panel to its hottest setting and stabbed at the start button. The drier rumbled to life, and, stepping back, Jo contemplated the baskets of dirty clothes and linens on the floor and tried to think through the remainder of her laundry strategy for the morning.

Hotel sheets next and then the family's? Or start with personal stuff and do the business baskets last? Kids, then strangers, she decided.

She hummed to herself as she pawed somewhat apprehensively through the boys' clothes, wondering if there was anything in there she should have known about a week ago and hoping not to find a dead animal or a half-eaten sandwich in among the jeans and t-shirts. It wouldn't be the first time for either.

Knocking on the front door made her straighten from her task, and she picked up a basket of clean laundry to carry with her to the entryway, leaving it on the bottom stair before she reached for the doorknob.

She swung the door open to find a familiar figure standing there.

"Dean?"

He swayed slightly where he stood, face gaunt, blinking at her. _What in the world?_ And even as she thought it, her gaze flicked past him, wondering where….

Dean took a faltering step forward, bringing her attention back fully to him.

"Honey?" Without thinking, she reached for him. His jeans were soaked and muddied, flannel over-shirt ripped and stained. The gray t-shirt against his skin was mottled looking and limp, stretched out at the collar and hem. She put her hand on his forearm. He was freezing. "Sweetheart…"

"Sam's dead."

It was just a scrape of pain across his vocal cords, and Jo felt the breath leave her body in a rush, ice freezing her blood in the wake of her gasp.

"He's gone." Dean said haltingly, "and I … I didn't …know what to…. " He trailed off, eyes wandering around the entryway until they settled briefly on Jo. Though she wasn't sure he was really seeing her.

 _Sam …._ Jo struggled to think, to speak, throat working before she was able to manage, "You did the right thing, baby," voice thick with unshed tears. "You did the right thing to come home."

Dazed eyes moved off, vague, never resting. "I…" he started, but his voice broke, gaze wandering back toward her and then away again.

"It's OK, sweetheart," she soothed. Even as she spoke, she was guiding him deeper into the house, starting toward the kitchen, but changing her plan when he staggered, stumbling heavily against her.

"'m, sorry," he mumbled, straightening sluggishly.

"When was the last time you slept, sugar?" she asked gently.

The look he gave her was confused, unfocused. He shook his head, "I don't… I…"

"OK," she said. "It's OK."

But it wasn't. It couldn't be.

She managed to get him to the bedroom without either of them ending up on the floor, and she steered him toward the bed. He sat heavily.

Jo put a palm against his cheek. "Do you want to take a shower?" she asked softly. He was filthy and so, so cold.

He blinked down at himself for a long minute. "Yeah," he finally whispered, and she watched him brace himself, bringing himself back to the present—where he was, who he was with. When he looked up at her, she felt like she was seeing _him_ for the first time. "I'm sorry," he said. "I…."

"Don't, sugar. You don't need to apologize for anything." Carefully, she moved her thumb over his cheek, pale, paper-thin skin.

He looked so fragile, and his eyes closed under her touch.

It took her a second to get out, "I'll go see if I can find you something to sleep in." She hadn't seen the Impala, and he hadn't had anything with him. What had happened?

"OK." It was barely audible, and he got slowly to his feet, moving stiffly toward the bathroom.

Jo stood, unmoving in the middle of the room until she heard the water turn on. Then she sank onto the bed next to her. _Sam's bed._ She put an unsteady hand to her mouth.

She gave herself two minutes—two minutes to cry, to bite back the sobs she knew Dean would not be able to bear, not then, not ever—before she got up and set to work.

* * *

By the time Dean was out of the shower, Jo had found a pair of Luke's pajama bottoms and one of Michael's t-shirts that would work for Dean to sleep in. Somewhere she had a stack of clothes the Winchesters had forgotten during different visits. She'd need to find that, sort through what was Dean's, what was Sam's….

Grief slammed into her and ruthlessly she pushed it aside. _No. I can't…_ She stopped that train of thought, forcing herself to focus on something tangible. _Dean._

She tapped on the bathroom door while the water was still running. Not hearing a response, she pushed the door open slowly, announcing herself softly before she set the night clothes and a toothbrush on the counter.

When Dean came back into the bedroom, Jo was shocked by how thin he was. She'd known that the pants would be too big, but they had a drawstring she'd thought would do. Even so, they hung on him, puddling on the floor at his feet. And Michael's shirt. She'd actually thought it might be snug on Dean, but it wasn't. It, too, emphasized that he'd lost weight, neck gaping slightly to reveal a surprisingly delicate looking collar bone.

She couldn't help but wonder how long ago Sam had died; how long Dean had wandered, lost, before he'd shown up on her doorstep. But she didn't ask, instead handing him a mug of soup she'd heated up. It was tepid because she'd wanted it to be easy for him to drink, and he drank it down obediently when she insisted. After the soup, she gave him a glass of water, which he also swallowed when she told him to.

Once she was fairly confident he wouldn't starve to death while he was asleep, she urged him down onto the bed, and he went easily, curling on his side without a sound.

Carefully she perched on the edge of the bed next to him, watching as he blinked heavily, bone-deep weariness finally catching up with him here where she prayed he knew he was safe. She smoothed shaking fingers through his hair as he started to succumb to exhaustion.

"Shhh, baby," she crooned. "Go to sleep."

* * *

Dean slept for three days. Or at least he didn't come out of his room for three days except to go to the bathroom.

And for the second time in her life Jo was faced with the task of telling her nephews that someone they loved was suddenly gone. Once had been horrible; twice was something she shouldn't have been expected to do.

Older now than when they'd faced the death of their parents, Michael and Jacob had taken the news of their friend's death as one might expect teenaged boys to react to such an announcement. Shock and grief with a veneer of control that cracked late at night or when they were alone with her or Luke.

Tommy, though….

When his parents had died, Tommy had still been a baby – a two-year-old who had only been able to absorb the shattering loss as an immediate lack of Mommy and Daddy, but not much beyond that with Aunt Jo/Mommy/Mama/Mom there to step into the role that never should have been vacant. As he'd grown Tommy'd missed the _idea_ of his parents with a kind of ache, but he'd never really known the grief except as an abstraction.

Sam's death was the first he'd ever experienced in its own right. And it had been devastating.

They all did what they could to comfort the boy even as they grieved themselves, and Jo suspected that Jake in particular gleaned his own comfort from his younger brother when Tommy sat close or climbed into bed with him at night. It wasn't the kind of comfort Jake would seek out on his own; but in giving, he could absorb it himself.

Jo was at a loss as to how to comfort Dean. He'd shut himself away in his room, and she didn't begrudge him that in the least. But she couldn't help being concerned about how long they should allow that isolation and wonder when it would be advisable to force some sort of interaction with the life that was going on around him in spite of his grief.

After a couple of days she'd called Bobby for guidance and been horrified to realize that Bobby hadn't known Sam was dead. Once Bobby had recovered as best he could from the shock of the news and Dean's silence on the subject, he and Jo had tried to figure through not only _why_ Dean hadn't gone to Bobby, but what exactly had happened.

Bobby'd known the boys had been on a hunt in the Pacific Northwest somewhere, but not much beyond that. Jo hadn't talked to the Winchesters in several weeks, so she was completely in the dark. Ultimately, they decided not to push Dean for the moment, but to let him work things out for himself for the time being, hoping he'd tell them himself at some point. They'd made arrangements for Jo to call Bobby when Dean emerged from his room or in a week, whichever came first.

Jo had been able to take only one more day of Dean's silence.

Dean hadn't eaten anything since that initial cup of soup she'd given him, and after three days it was time to try again in terms of getting something in his stomach.

"Sweetie?" Jo knocked gingerly on the door as she pushed it open. There was no immediate response.

"Dean?" She continued into the dim room. It was almost noon, but the blinds did a good job of blocking out the late morning sun. She saw the lump under the covers stir sluggishly.

"Yeah?" His voice was rough, unused, and she wondered if that would be all the acknowledgment she would get out of him. But he rolled toward her, pushing the covers back slightly to squint up at her blearily.

She sat down on the edge of the bed, though she resisted the urge to reach for him.

"You need to eat something, baby," she said.

His brow knitted. "What?"

"You haven't had anything to eat in almost three days," she told him.

She watched him process this, watched the bleak expression settle over his face before he rolled back over, away from her. "'m not hungry," he muttered.

Jo bit her lip, not sure what to do next.

"Mama?" Tommy from the doorway. Jo was surprised to see Dean's shoulders hunch slightly at the sound of Tommy's voice.

"Hey, sugar," she said, not shooing him away, wondering what would happen if Dean had to interact with the younger boy.

Tommy eased into the room. "Dean?" he asked softly, coming to stand by Jo.

Dean stiffened, but he turned his head toward Tommy. "Hey, kiddo," he said quietly.

"Hey." Tommy's voice wavered. "Are you OK?"

It was hard to tell who was more startled by the strangled sob that escaped Dean at the soft question. It was cut off so quickly, Jo wondered for a moment if she'd heard it all.

Dean cleared his throat, rolling onto his back before he answered. "No," he said almost inaudibly. Then cracked the smallest of smiles at Tommy, who smiled back tentatively. "Fooled you, huh?" he asked.

Tommy laughed unsteadily, leaning into Jo. "Not really," he said, wiping at his eyes.

"Yeah." Dean sighed, looking away again.

"Honey, please come have something to eat," Jo said, letting the plea sound clearly in her voice, using Tommy's presence as leverage.

Dean didn't respond for a long time, and Jo didn't speak into the silence, just pulled Tommy into her, holding him tight while she waited.

"'K," Dean finally breathed, and she closed her eyes briefly in relief and thankfulness. "Can I take a shower first?" he asked.

"Of course you can," she reassured him with a slight smile.

She stood, pausing when Tommy took the place she'd just vacated. The boy scooted up until he was sitting with his back against the headboard.

"Honey…," she started softly, but Dean interrupted her.

"'s OK, Jo." He sat up slowly, stretching out haltingly until he'd pushed himself upright, leaning back next to Tommy. Dean raised an arm and settled it around the boy's shoulders. Tommy looked up at him, blinking with surprise at the contact, even as he shifted closer. "You want to hang out with me until I'm ready?" Dean asked quietly, and Tommy nodded, relaxing completely into the man. Dean's arm wrapped more fully around Tommy, and he took a careful, shaking breath before he looked across at Jo. "OK?" he said.

Blinking rapidly, Jo cleared her throat. "OK," she managed around the lump.


	2. Chapter 2

Bobby tugged his hat off as he entered the diner, nodding at Jo as he headed toward what had become his usual booth. She gave him a tight smile of acknowledgement, tilting the coffee carafe in her hand at him as an indication that she'd be by shortly. He scooted across the worn vinyl seat and scrubbed a hand over his beard.

"Morning'," she said.

"Mmmph," Bobby said doubtfully.

Jo put a thick ceramic mug on the table in front of him and filled it to the brim.

"Whatcha want?" she asked.

He shrugged.

She looked at him shrewdly, and not particularly approvingly. "I'll bring you something."

He shrugged again.

She left him alone for awhile, then slipped into the booth across from him when she brought his food.

"How'd things go last night?" she asked.

Bobby studied his plate warily, then took a careful bite of eggs and hash browns. Thought his stomach wasn't going to reject it. He shook his head slowly. "I really don't know," he admitted.

* * *

When Bobby had arrived, Dean had met him on the front porch, face strangely blank as Bobby had approached.

"Hey, kiddo," Bobby'd said, voice breaking in spite of his best effort to keep it steady.

"Bobby," Dean had whispered. He'd taken an uncertain step forward, and Bobby had surprised himself by lifting up a hand to rest against Dean's cheek.

"I'm so sorry, Dean."

The boy's expression had broken a little then, but still he'd only nodded.

They'd stood there for a minute.

Bobby had let his hand drop. "Jo called."

"Oh," Dean had said. Had blinked, breath catching. "Oh, God. I'm sorry, Bobby, I'm so sorry. I..."

Bobby'd felt the sting of tears at the remorse in Dean's voice. "Don't, son," he'd said gruffly. "It doesn't matter. You had..." He shook his head. "It doesn't matter."

Dean had taken one more step toward him, and Bobby had been unable to stop himself from reaching out and pulling the younger man to him.

Without a sound, Dean's arms had come up and around, clutching desperately at Bobby. Vaguely, Bobby had been aware that the family, having followed Dean out onto the porch, had begun to edge away, murmured voices and quick steps, screen door easing shut.

"What happened?" Bobby had finally asked, voice rough with tears, when Dean had begun to pull back. "Dean, what happened to Sam?"

Dean's face had tilted down, eyes going to his feet. He'd cleared his throat. "He fell, Bobby," Dean had whispered. "Off a cliff, into a gorge. I couldn't... I couldn't..." The kid had stopped then. Hadn't gone on.

And there on the porch, Dean's shoulders hunched forward, whole body trembling with the effort to hold himself together, Bobby hadn't had the heart to push for more. Had just nodded his understanding and after a minute where Dean hadn't made another move, steered Dean into the house, letting the buffer of more people around steady Dean and give him space. There'd be time to find out more later.

So Bobby had bided his time, gotten a room, and spent almost a week around the house with the family, doing what people did in the face of death and loss – sitting and eating and trying to be there when he was needed.

Which had happened yesterday afternoon. When Dean had finally asked about the Impala.

Luke had looked up from the book he'd been reading and watched Dean carefully over his half-glasses.

"We found her the day you got here, about ten miles north. Out of gas."

Dean had nodded, brows drawing down.

"You had, uh, left the door open and the battery was dead. Michael and I filled her up, gave the battery a jump. Drove her back."

Dean hadn't responded for a minute. "Where is she?" as he'd risen.

Luke had jerked his chin toward the kitchen. "Out back," he'd said with a smile.

Bobby'd gotten up and followed Dean out. He'd watched Dean approach the car carefully and skim his fingertips almost apologetically along the clean line of her side before opening the driver side door and sliding in.

A few steps behind, Bobby had reached the car and hesitated just a beat. There'd been no movement in the car, and Bobby had taken a chance, slipping gingerly into the passenger seat.

Dean hadn't acknowledged him, but he hadn't kicked him out either.

Finally the kid had turned to look over at him. "It's all a blur, Bobby," he'd said unsteadily.

Bobby'd let that set for just a second. "What do you remember?" he'd asked carefully.

"Hunt in the woods. People lost, grief-stricken. Convinced someone they loved was dead."

Bobby's gaze had sharpened. "Dean..." _Dear God. Maybe..._

But the younger man had already been shaking his head. "No. Not... Not like it was with Sam. They would just suddenly be overcome with loss and wander away, inconsolable." Dean had been sitting almost motionless behind the wheel, only his fingers in movement, clenching and unclenching around the wheel. "I saw... I saw him fall. I heard him... scream... as he went... over."

Bobby had deflated, swallowed heavily.

"I... I looked for him, Bobby. I followed the river for hours. I looked... and I couldn't... I found his shoe." A broken laugh. "A shoe." Dean had sniffed and wiped a hand across his nose. "The ranger said that they hardly ever find a body. That the current... And the rocks..."

For the moment Dean had seemed to run out of words.

Eventually, though, he'd gone on. "I don't... Everything after that is...," Dean had shaken his head, and eyes that were still bruised with exhaustion and grief had finally come up to meet Bobby's.

"I'm sorry I didn't call you, man. I don't... I just... The next thing I knew I was here and I..."

Bobby had gingerly snaked out a hand to rest on the back of Dean's neck and felt it bow under the slight pressure.

"It's OK, kid." Bobby had hesitated. "It surprised me that you didn't call," he'd admitted. "But it doesn't surprise me that you came here." He had given Dean a small smile. "You've got a family here. People who love you..."

Dean had blanched at that, his head beginning to wag back and forth. "Bobby...," he'd started and the eyes that had locked onto Bobby's were wet with pain and now a dawning guilt.

Bobby'd cursed softly under his breath. _Stupid_ , he'd thought fiercely to himself, hand squeezing more sharply than he'd really intended on Dean's neck. "I ain't saying that you don't think of me as family, boy," he'd said, gruffer than he'd meant to be here, as well. "Or that the Sweeds are some sort of substitute for your own mama and daddy." He'd paused. "For Sam."

Dean had stilled as Bobby'd spoken, looking away and out the window, muscle along his jaw working.

"But they're something for you," Bobby had continued doggedly. "Something for you to put your back up against, to heal with. And there's no shame in that, son. There's no disloyalty in it," he'd said gently, letting the words sink in.

When Dean had eventually turned back to Bobby, the kid had looked so tense that Bobby had been almost afraid the boy would snap in two. Dean hadn't said a thing, though the struggle he was going through was clear in his eyes—aching need versus gnawing guilt, all-consuming loss versus the possibility of healing.

Bobby hadn't had any idea how to reconcile any of those conflicting emotions, so he had blown out a gusty breath, letting his hand fall from Dean's neck. He'd cleared his throat. "I could use a drink."

Dean had given a startled snort and visibly relaxed. He'd laughed shortly. "You and me both."

Bobby'd nodded. "I got whiskey in my room."

Dean had shaken himself and thumped Bobby on the leg. "Lead the way."

* * *

"We talked," Bobby said to Jo, concentrating on his breakfast.

"And drank," she said repressively. "A lot."

Bobby hunched his shoulders at her tone. "Yeah."

"Is he still in your room? Because he didn't come home last night."

Bobby couldn't help the smirk that crept into his eyes. "You wait up for him, Mom?" he teased when he finally looked up at her.

Jo scowled at him. "No," she said defensively. A pause. "Yes," she muttered. "Bobby, I don't think..."

"Josie, he's fine." Luke, nudging at her with a finger in her ribs. She jerked and scooted over, transferring her frown from the man across from her to the one settling in beside her. Luke gave Bobby a quirk of a smile even as he raised a hand at Marge for some coffee and his breakfast.

"I passed him on my way out a couple of minutes ago," Luke told her. "He looks a little hungover. But other than that..."

"And you think that's OK," Jo demanded flatly. "That he deals with his grief over Sam by getting drunk." Her head swiveled between the two men.

Bobby could hear the fear in her voice and her own grief.

""Course not," Bobby said without heat. And was somewhat amused by the startled blink he got in return. "Girl, I'm not planning on getting the boy liquored up on regular basis," he defended himself dryly.

"Josie, Dean's not 'getting drunk,'" Luke put in gently. "He got drunk. Once."

"So far," Jo said under her breath.

"OK. So far," Luke granted. "But I think between the three of us we can keep track of whether once – or more than that for that matter – turns into something we really need to worry about."

Marge put Luke's coffee on the table in front of him along with a plate of fried eggs, grits and bacon. He smiled his thanks at her, and she moved off again.

"I don't like it," Jo said softly, and Luke nodded his understanding.

"I know you don't, sugar." Then he gave her a gentle smile. "I seem to remember at least one call from you after Davy died where you didn't sound exactly sober."

Jo blinked, and Bobby saw the shift on her face at the same time Luke did, both men abruptly registering the sudden shine of tears in her eyes.

"Honey," Luke breathed, startled and reaching for her even as she shook her head quickly, raising a hand to cover his, giving first Luke, then Bobby a watery smile.

"It's just...," and she cleared her throat, started over. "It's just so easy to try to lose yourself that way, and I don't want that for him, I don't..."

"I know, Josie, I know." Luke tried to reassure her, though Bobby could see that the man was unsettled by the implications of what his wife had just said. "You know that Bobby and I don't want that for him either," he said. "But this was one time. And I think we need to be careful of making a bigger deal out of it than it is, OK?"

Jo's fingers curled around Luke's, and she took a shaky breath. "I know. You're right." She was watching her husband closely. "I think I just... I came close to the edge on that. After David died. And it scares me."

Luke was pale in the morning light of the café. "I never knew that," he said, watching her as carefully as she was watching him, and Bobby wondered if he was agile enough to get out of the booth without calling more attention to himself than not.

She was shaking her head. "It wasn't... bad. I just... scared myself a little." She laughed unsteadily. "It was after that time I called you, actually, when I realized that I might be close to trouble. I was so _embarrassed_ the next morning, and when I realized you might tell Jack that I'd drunk-dialed you..." she broke off, flushing, "not _that_ way," she insisted to both of them when Luke raised an eyebrow at her and Bobby whistled.

Luke frowned at her in mock disapproval. "I should think not. What with you newly widowed and me a happily married man."

She shoved at his shoulder, laughing now. "Stop," she said.

Luke put an arm around her and hugged her close. She sighed and relaxed against him.

Bobby leaned back, relieved that the tension was gone. He took another bite of his eggs. "Who's Jack?" he asked.

"My brother," she said easily, though there was a sadness that accompanied the information. "The boys' father."

 _Ah._ Bobby nodded, watching Luke watch Jo for a long minute.

"Hey." Dean's voice broke the silence, and Bobby shifted over in response.

Bobby eyed the kid speculatively. He _wasn't_ sure how things had gone last night. Bobby had intended a few – OK, maybe a lot of – drinks to get the boy to... let go... or something.

Not of the grief. Bobby knew it wasn't possible for Dean to let go of that. Not now. Probably not ever. But maybe he could let go of some of the control the kid seemed to have wrapped himself up in so tightly. There was a... blankness about Dean's grief that concerned Bobby. It wasn't a lack of acknowledgement of the grief itself, but somehow such a shutdown of emotion that Bobby felt like it wasn't even Dean he was dealing with most of the time. It hadn't been that Bobby was looking for Dean to have a total break down, but he also knew that for all Dean's stoicism, the boy was surprisingly emotional, especially when it came to his family.

And as much as Bobby would hate to admit it, he knew that what the kid really needed was to open up, to release some of the pent-up grief he was carrying. That, Bobby thought, might be a start down the road toward dealing with Sam's death the best Dean would ever be able to. Getting the kid drunk was the only way Bobby could think of to get around some of the defenses Dean had built up over the course of his young life.

Bobby had seen Dean well and truly drunk only a couple of times in all the years he'd known the boy, though he'd seen him drink plenty. And those were the times that Bobby had often felt he'd gotten the best glimpses of what was at the core of Dean's heart. As sad as that seemed to Bobby in this moment.

The first time Bobby'd seen the boy drunk had been not long after Dean had turned 21. Out with Bobby and his dad and even a wide-eyed but trying not to show it Sammy, Dean had been in his element. With his family around him and the tacit approval of his father to drink himself into oblivion while he laughed and flirted and played pool, Dean had been as unguarded as Bobby thought he'd ever seen him.

For once John had seemed willing just to shake his head indulgently, while Sam had laughed himself sick at Dean's antics as the two of them played increasingly chaotic games of 8-ball. Bobby and John had put both boys to bed that night , Dean loose-limbed and giggling, Sam much the same with exhaustion and the infection of his brother's drunken amusement.

The second time had come almost a year after Sam had left for college. Dean had turned up on Bobby's porch one night, smiling tightly, though without any pleasure, as he'd edged through the door.

Bobby'd heard the story of Sam's defection from John himself not long after it happened and had had to bite down hard on the angry words that had wanted to respond to the self-righteousness and denial in John's cold rage at his younger son. Bobby hadn't talked to Dean since it had happened, but had been able to read the loneliness and hurt easily in the boy's stiff posture and averted eyes even so long after Sam had been gone.

Dean was on a solo hunt, his first as it turned out, and he'd stopped at Bobby's for what he'd said was information, but what Bobby suspected was more like moral support. Bobby'd done what he could on both counts, and that night the two of them had worked their ways steadily through a bottle of Jack. Dean had given Bobby his own version of not only the night John had kicked Sam out, but of the months that had passed since then. Dean had rambled for hours, disjointed and broken-hearted, trying even then not to choose sides between his father and his brother. Bobby'd put the boy to bed again that night, loose-limbed like before, but without the giggles or the comfort of his little brother in the next bed. Dean had rolled in the direction of Sam's bed before he'd opened his eyes to take in the lack of an occupant and without a word had turned away, only the barest stutter of a breath to indicate the loss.

Bobby had felt his own intake of air hitch at the movement, and he'd swallowed hard as he'd pulled the covers up over Dean's shoulders.

"Go to sleep, kiddo," he'd said, voice gruff with emotion. And he'd thought Dean had sighed, even as he'd obeyed.

But last night had provided no breakthrough as far as Bobby'd been able to tell. There'd been no talking or opening up, no sharing or opportunity for comfort. Just a lostness that had stolen Bobby's breath and his words as Dean had sat, broken again, on the bed, tears trailing silently down his cheeks as he'd downed shot after shot.

Because sometimes Bobby Singer was as big an idjit as any Winchester ever was.

Dean had passed out on the extra bed in pretty short order, and for a third time in his life Bobby found himself putting a drunk Dean Winchester to bed, once again pulling off the kid's shoes and covering him with the comforter.

And Bobby'd only been able to sit, shaken and hollowed out on his own bed, watching the boy sleep while he did a little drinking of his own.

This morning Dean definitely looked the worse for wear. But he was up and marginally communicative. So maybe that was something.

"Hey, sweet pea," Jo said. "How're you feeling?"

Dean squinted at her suspiciously, not sure what to make of her solicitous greeting.

"OK," he answered cautiously.

"Really?" she asked. "You don't look like you feel very well." The innocence was such an obvious fake that Dean rolled his eyes at her without thinking. Then moaned softly and put his head in his hands.

Marge put coffee on the table in front of Dean. "You want anything, sweetie?" she asked.

Dean raised his head just enough to look at the food on the table around him with an uneasy expression. "Um. Toast? Maybe some scrambled eggs?" He swallowed noisily even as he said it.

"You got it, sugar," Marge said sympathetically, recognizing the slightly green look from long experience.

Dean sipped his coffee blearily and eyed the other people at the table. "Is this where the lecture starts?" he asked sullenly, gaze dropping back to his mug.

 _Huh._ At this point Bobby was inclined to see "sulky" as improvement over "blankly indifferent."

Surreptitiously, Bobby glanced across the table to see what Jo would do. She didn't say anything immediately, but watched Dean closely and with such concern that Bobby felt his throat tighten uncomfortably. _Damn it._

"No, baby, it's not," she said softly when his eyes finally came up again in response to the extended silence.

She hesitated before she reached a hand across the table. Slowly, Dean put his in hers.

"I love you," she whispered.

Dean ducked his head, throat working convulsively, the hand on Jo's tightening in the same way.

Bobby's eyes stung. _God_ _damn_ _it,_ he thought irritably, scowling and blinking.

Jo nodded, "OK." and gave Dean's fingers a last squeeze. "I've got work to do," she said officiously and patting Luke's shoulder, got her husband sliding out of his seat in front of her. "Dinner's at 6 tonight, gentlemen."

Luke didn't sit down again after he got up, met Bobby's eyes briefly before he touched a hand lightly to the top of Dean's bent head. "See y'all tonight," he said.

* * *

If getting Dean drunk hadn't done exactly what Bobby had thought it might, somehow in the days that followed, Dean began to venture out again, not quite so empty as he had been. Bobby wasn't sure if had been the simple physical release of the tears, the talk they'd had in the car, or Jo's gentle reaction the next morning, but whatever it was, there was the slightest of changes.

Jo had told Bobby that it had been Tommy who'd first coaxed Dean out of bed, Dean unable _not_ to respond to the younger boy's pain and try, in his way, to offer what comfort he could. But by the time Bobby had arrived, Dean had withdrawn again—if not physically to his room, then emotionally to a place not completely unlike where he'd retreated after John had died. There wasn't the bitter anger that had been present when he'd lost his father, but it had still been a place that would not allow anyone else in.

"Hey, Tommy?"

The boy raised his head from the comic book he was reading, his surprise at being addressed by Dean evident on his face.

"You, uh, want to go for a ride?" The question was tentative, and Dean bounced the keys to the Impala nervously in his palm.

Tommy blinked. "Really?" he blurted.

Dean's grimaced slightly at the disbelief in Tommy's voice, regretful. "Yeah."

"Sure!" Tommy had begun to scramble to his feet even before Dean had answered, clearly having decided to accept before the offer could be taken back.

"That OK?" Dean asked Jo, who had looked up from the towels she was folding at the exchange. His eyes lighted on her only briefly.

"That would be fine," she said without missing a beat, trying not to be too obvious in her pleasure at this new development. "Actually." She bit her lip and glanced at the clock. "Jake needs to be picked up from practice in about 45 minutes. Could you...?" She let the request trail off, gauging Dean's reaction.

Dean shrugged. "Sure. No problem."

Jo smiled. "Thank you."

When they returned, all three boys seemed lighter than when they'd left. Dean's smile was easier, and both Jake and Tommy watched their friend with less anxiety and more hopefulness, their own grins quicker and more responsive. When Jo had asked where they'd been on their drive, Tommy'd lifted his shoulder in a studied imitation of the boys who had gone before him. "Around," he'd said cryptically, eyes on his plate as he ate.

It hadn't been an evasion so much as a closing of ranks, Tommy planting his flag in the boys' camp with Dean and his brother. And Bobby had seen the quirking, almost sad smile of recognition on Jo's face.

"Sounds fascinating," she'd allowed dryly, eyes sliding to Dean, who had crinkled his eyes at her, seeing it himself and amused by it.

"I get to go next time," Jake asserted forcefully. "Right?" he demanded of Dean.

Dean nodded. "Right." He was just moving his food around on his plate. "Michael get back to school OK?" he asked.

It was Jo's turn to nod. "Yes. And he better have headed straight to the library to study for that test tomorrow," she said darkly.

"It was nice of him to stay so long," Dean said softly.

Jo felt her heart stutter slightly at his words and watched him closely. "He wanted to be here."

Dean didn't lift his eyes from his plate, but nodded and finally took a bite.

At that point the conversation turned to other things, and Bobby watched Dean himself, noting the point at which the kid seemed to switch off in the midst of everything that was going on around him. Luke noticed it, too, and took the first opportunity he could to distract the kids and let Dean escape.

It was a start.

* * *

Bobby stayed another couple of weeks.

There hadn't been a lot for him to do, but he'd figured out ways to help where he could and he'd been there to remember when Dean began to say "remember when..." Had been there even when he didn't remember a particular situation to remember Sam himself at 8 or 12 or 15.

Those moments didn't come often, but when they did, Bobby did what he could to listen, to offer stories of his own, to share those memories as Dean began to work his way through the loss of his brother. Slowly, slowly Dean began to look less fragile, both emotionally and physically, began to shore up those parts of his defenses that had shattered so devastatingly when he'd watched Sam go over that cliff.

Bobby knew that Dean would never be the same, but more and more he was gaining confidence that the boy would survive with some part of _himself_ still intact. Even if it wasn't that part that had been so entwined with Sam that there had been moments when it wasn't clear where one of those boys ended and the other started.

Bobby had even managed one night to get a little more information out of Dean about the hunt he and Sam had been on. Enough information to do some research on his own, to track down the officer Dean had talked to after Sam had fallen, to find the motel owner who was still pissed that the boy had run out on his bill (though he'd been somewhat mollified by Bobby's explanation of what had happened and the promise of payment on its way). It hadn't been enough information to paint a perfectly clear picture of what had happened, but it had been enough to convince Bobby that Sam was gone. And if that knowledge had felt like losing Sam all over again, Bobby hadn't shared that grief with Dean.

The day Bobby headed home, Dean stuck close enough that Bobby began to have second thoughts.

"You OK?" Bobby asked as he tucked the last of his clothes into the duffle on his bed. He glanced at the kid on the other bed, sitting cross-legged as he watched Bobby zip up his bag.

"Yeah," Dean said.

"Cuz I can stay longer," Bobby told him easily.

"I'm fine," Dean answered.

"OK." Bobby did a last check around the room as Dean slung Bobby's bag over his shoulder and started toward the door.

They walked the short distance to the truck in silence. Dean dropped the duffle into the passenger seat and closing the door, moved around the hood of the car to where Bobby stood by the driver's side.

Dean held out his hand. "Thanks for coming," he said, eyes bright, raw.

Nodding, Bobby grasped the rough palm, unable for a moment to say anything. He cleared his throat. "You know where I am."

"Yes, sir," Dean whispered.

They hugged, Bobby allowing himself the extra time to hold on longer than he might usually, to press Dean's cheek to his, to say fiercely into the boy's ear. "I'll be there, Dean. Always."

He felt Dean nod against him, the briefest of movement of Dean's face into his shoulder, the mumble of "I know," against his neck.

Bobby swallowed hard. "Good." He moved back, laying his palm one last time against Dean's cheek before he stepped away and got in the car.

* * *

When Bobby left, Dean went quiet again for awhile. Something he continued to do on occasion. Just stop talking when it got to be too much. And the family learned how to cope with that as well, though as time passed those deep silences grew fewer and farther between.

Eventually, Jo thought Dean managed "functional" on a certain level. He interacted with others and worked and occasionally laughed, but there was a wound at the heart of who he was that Jo knew would never fully heal.

Dean didn't seem to have any inclination to get back on the road, and Jo couldn't help but be grateful for that. He picked up shifts at the diner, working at handy man jobs around the motel, and if she and Luke had thought they were on their way to being empty nesters with Michael at college and Jake close on his heels, they didn't begrudge the fact that they seemed to have picked up an addition to the household they hadn't originally planned on.

Bobby called them or they called Bobby every week or so, just checking in, keeping posted.

So the weeks turned into months and life went on.


	3. Chapter 3

Luke hung up the phone and gave his deputy a wry glance.

"I'm headed over to Miss Book's. She says there's a suspicious character loitering outside the store."

Matt smiled without looking up from the report he was reading. "Good luck."

Luke grunted, grabbing his hat off its hook as he stepped out into the air. Abigail Book's tea room was just a few blocks away. Luke figured he deserved the walk if he was going to have to roust a homeless man off the steps of one of the town's fine establishments. It was May, just before the heat of the summer was really going to kick in and Luke reckoned he better enjoy the weather while he could.

Abigail Book was the last surviving granddaughter of one of the town's founding families. Frail and in her 80s, she ran a little restaurant that she'd opened in her 60s after her father had died (finally), leaving her alone, but in control of her own life for the first time. She was a sweet little thing—determined, but easily spooked—and Luke and Matt investigated "suspicious" people around her place every few weeks. She was always embarrassed and apologetic when nothing came of her concerns, but it didn't stop her from calling. Everyone in town knew that as a girl in her teens Miss Book had been assaulted by a stranger; and if people suspected she'd been raped during that attack, no one knew for sure. It was the blessing (or curse) of a small community that no one spoke to her about it; just exchanged pitying glances and offered words of comfort when she saw danger in every shadow.

Luke stepped up onto walkway that ran down the length of the commercial section of the street. It was covered with awnings along each block, allowing people to go from store to store with shade during the summer and shelter from the rain during storms. Even as he'd left the sheriff's office, Luke had been able to see the man at issue slouched on the decorative bench that sat outside the window of the Tea Cozy. Getting closer, Luke saw what must be a dog crouched under man's legs, only a battered muzzle barely visible behind the man's ankles.

Luke approached cautiously, not wanting to startle the man. In all likelihood he was just a guy down on his luck who'd picked the wrong place to rest.

Keeping his steps slow and non-threatening, Luke watched the still figure, waiting for the shaggy brown head to acknowledge him in some way. As Luke drew even with the man, wary hazel eyes peeked out from messy hair that fell past his ears and over his face.

And Luke felt his heart clench—hard—in his chest. "Sam."

The word breathed out of Luke's mouth before his mind caught up, reminding him. _Not Sam,_ it taunted. _It can't be..._

But Luke was transfixed.

There was no recognition in the thin face that gazed up at him. Just a slightly startled blink that he'd been addressed. The man was skinny as hell, cheeks hollow, a new scar, pink and healing, ran down the side of his face and disappeared into a scraggly beard.

"Excuse me?" Rough voice, hesitant.

Luke swallowed heavily. _Oh my God._

"Nothin'," Luke said huskily, suddenly aware that he'd actually stopped walking. He got himself moving, afraid that if he stayed he might scare the man _Sam_ _Sam dear God Sam_ into flight. Luke gave him a fleeting, rictus of a smile and opened the door into the Tea Cozy.

"Did you see him?" Miss Book asked in a stage whisper, her appearance at his elbow making Luke jump.

He ran a shaking hand over his face. "Yes, ma'am," he told her, turning his fake "everything's OK" smile on her even as his mind raced. She was watching him apprehensively.

Luke shook himself. "I don't think there's anything to be worried about, Miss Book." He was having a hard time getting his thoughts together. "Just looks like a hungry kid." Sam, though— _SamSamSam—_ not a kid.

Miss Book peered around Luke out the window toward Sam's hunched shoulders. "He does look awful young," she said uncertainly. "Do you think he might want something to eat?"

Luke's smile was more genuine this time. She had a generous heart, once it eased past the fear. "Yes, ma'am, I bet he would."

Casting one last glance out the front window, she nodded. "I have some soup left over. And a beef stock bone for that poor dog." She moved back toward the kitchen.

Through the glass Luke kept his attention on the tense form just outside. Sam hadn't gotten up, but he looked ready to take off, head canted slightly toward the door, watching. Luke worried at his bottom lip, not sure what to do. Call home? Let Dean know? See what Jo would say? He'd just reached for his phone when Miss Book came back toward him, carefully balancing a tray with a bowl of soup and a large bone on it.

"Sheriff, could you get the door for me, please?" Her eyes never left the burden in her hands.

Luke took the tray from her. "I got it, Miss Book. Would you...?"

With a grateful smile, she let him have the tray, reaching for the knob and swinging the door open.

Luke was watching for Sam's reaction as they approached, and the young man stiffened, starting to rise. Not for politeness-sake, but ready to run.

"Are you hungry?" Miss Book asked hesitantly, an unsure smile touching her face.

Sam froze. His eyes went from the fragile old woman in front of him to Luke slightly behind her.

"Miss Book makes the best soup in town," Luke said in what he hoped was a non-threatening tone of voice.

"Now, sheriff," said Miss Book self-consciously, blushing slightly. And Luke couldn't help the indulgent shake of his head at her embarrassment. Or the odd feeling of useless anger at the person or people who had hurt her so badly so many years ago.

"Don't let her pshawing fool you," Luke smiled. "It's the truth."

Sam had finished rising, though it seemed more like respect now than preparation for taking off, but he was uncertain and cautious.

"I've got a bone for your dog, if he's hungry," Miss Book said kindly, eyes going to the dog, clearly reacting to Sam's hesitancy and the wounded way he held himself.

The dog had raised itself to a sitting position with its master, and the thin tail thumped once on the wooden decking of the porch.

"That seems like a 'yes' to me," Luke said with a laugh, and the dog's tail thumped again.

"He's always hungry," Sam said softly, a slight smile flitting over his face. He paused before he said, "Thank you."

Pleased that he'd accepted her offering, Miss Book made sitting motions with her hand, taking the bone off the tray. When Sam complied, retaking his seat, she made to give the dog the bone, then stopped.

"Maybe you'd rather he not take food from strangers?" she asked, holding the bone out to Sam. The dog's eyes followed the food.

"Uh, yeah, thanks," Sam said. "Here you go, Dean." Sam patted the dog, who had taken the proffered bone quite daintily. "Good boy."

Luke bobbled the tray, the clattering of silverware and crockery drawing both Sam's and Miss Book's eyes to him. He cleared his throat. "Dean, huh?" he said hoarsely. "Good name."

Sam shrugged, scratching absently at a spot behind the dog's ears. "Yeah. It just kind of seemed to fit."

Luke let it go at that and set the tray down on the bench next to Sam. Turning his attention from the dog to his own food, Sam picked up the tray to put it on his lap, clumsy fingers picking up the spoon and dipping it in the broth. He started slowly, but soon was inhaling the soup and the bread that had been served with it. Watching him eat, Miss Book frowned slightly then excused herself and went back into the store.

"I'm Luke Sweed," Luke said once Sam had finished his meal, holding out his hand. Sam took it hesitantly. "And that was Abigail Book." He raised an eyebrow at Sam questioningly.

"John." Sam answered the unspoken question softly. Didn't offer a last name.

"John," said Luke around the lump in his throat. "Nice to meet you."

The moment of awkward silence was broken when Miss Book reappeared with another plate, this one with a thick sandwich on it. She handed it to Sam with a smile. "I don't know what I was thinking just bringing you soup. A big, strong boy like you needs more than that."

Sam reached for the food and Luke could see the slight tremor in his hands. He was watching the woman with enormous eyes. "Thank you," he said softly. "Thank you, Miss Book."

"You're welcome, dear," she said with a quick, bird-like look at Luke.

"I told S-, John who we were while you were inside," he explained, and she nodded approvingly.

Miss Book excused herself again, returning to work while Sam ate the sandwich and Luke tried to figure out what to do next.

Sam had just finished half of his meal and was watching Luke with growing apprehension as he chewed, clearly unnerved by Luke's continued presence.

"John." Luke had come to a decision. "I don't know what your situation is here, but my wife and I... my wife and I sometimes try to help out people who are down on their luck. Who maybe just need a hand to get back on their feet."

Sam stopped eating. But he didn't respond.

"We've got a hotel and when we've got an extra room we sometimes loan it out to someone who might need it."

Sam continued to watch him, face giving nothing away. At least. It wouldn't have given anything away to someone who didn't know the kid.

Encouraged, Luke went on. "It's not a handout, mind you. We usually ask for some help around the place, odd jobs, bussing tables, cleaning rooms. For room and board, maybe some extra cash."

Sam was thinking about it; Luke could see it clearly on the boy's face. _Come on, God. Please..._

Sam bit his lip. His eyes went to the dog at his feet. "Dean could come?" he asked.

Luke grinned a grin that "John" would not understand, though Sam would have. "Dean is always welcome. Our boys will love him."

Sam thought it over some more, but Luke already knew what the answer was going to be.

"OK, yeah. That would be great. Thank you."

* * *

Once he'd gotten Sam to agree to come home with him, Luke had to think quickly about how to anticipate the consequences of showing up with Sam in tow. He was reluctant to leave the kid on his own, but he was pretty sure that Sam wouldn't take off on him now.

"John, I need to finish up a couple of things at work. Call my wife; let her know we're coming. You mind waiting here for me for a few minutes?"

Sam had started in on the rest of his sandwich, and he shook his head, swallowing a bite. "No, sir. I don't mind."

Luke nodded. "Good. I'll be back."

It was all Luke could do not to sprint back to the office, but he kept his steps measured if quick all the way. When he reached for the door knob, he realized his hands were shaking so bad he almost couldn't get the door open.

"Everything OK?" Matt asked it distractedly, just glancing up from his computer before his head went back down again. And came up sharply. "Luke?" He was out of his chair and striding across the room. "Luke, what...?"

"It's OK. I'm OK. Just... give me a second, alright?" He sat down abruptly on the bench next to the door, his legs no longer willing to hold him upright. He put his elbows on his knees and both hands over his face and tried, tried, tried to get the tremors running through his body under control.

After a long minute, Matt said softly, "What the hell, Luke?" and Luke was gradually aware of an arm around his shoulders and a glass of water being pressed into his hands.

Hands still shaking slightly, Luke took the water with one hand while the other wiped the wetness off his cheeks. He sat up and took a deep, shuddering breath. "Sorry, man," he said, giving his deputy a contrite look.

Matt was watching him with real concern. "What happened?" The younger man seemed to realize that there was no danger coming their way, but he was tense. He couldn't seem to think of any question to ask beyond the obvious, because he couldn't begin to grasp what would have shaken his boss so thoroughly.

"It's Sam," Luke said. "The homeless guy on Miss Book's porch is Sam."

Matt's mouth fell open slightly. "Wh- what?" he stammered. "What?"

"Yeah," Luke said with a huff of disbelieving breath. "Exactly."

Matt just continued to stare, and Luke felt the shakiness of shock start to turn into joy. "He's alive, Matty. Sam's alive."

"What... What...?" Matt was stuck, shaking his head and blinking, and Luke laughed out loud, shaking his own head in wonder and disbelief.

"I don't know, kid. I don't have any idea. But I've got him. And I'm taking him home."

"Where is he? Where has he been? What...?"

"He's down at the Tea Cozy still. Matt, he doesn't know who he is. Didn't recognize me. I've got to... I've..." He stood up abruptly. "I've got to call Jo and figure out what to do." He was suddenly hit by an urgency that made it feel like his skin was crawling. "Stick your head out and make sure he's still there," he ordered. "Don't scare him," he added sharply when Matt jumped to his feet.

"Right," Matt said, easing the door open and peeking his head gingerly out into the sunlight. "He's still there," he reported.

"Good, good," Luke said, already dialing Jo's cell, knowing that she'd have it with her as she worked.

The call with Jo was disjointed and hurried, his fear that Sam would leave making him short in the telling of the news. But Jo's initial stunned silence had switched to businesslike questions and responses once he'd explained his concerns.

"Dean's here," she said. "I'll tell him and we'll... We'll figure something out."

"I don't want to scare Sam, Josie," Luke said, afraid that strong emotions would spook the kid, that Sam might reject his brother if they came at him too quick. "And I don't want Dean to be hurt any more than he already has been. But..."

"I know," she said heavily. "I don't know how best to do this. Do we tell Sam who he is before he sees Dean? Or wait until he's more comfortable with us? I mean, right now, we're all strangers to him. He won't know that he can trust us. That Dean... that Dean..." She couldn't go on.

"Yeah," Luke sighed. "But. I think... I think maybe I should tell Sam before we get home. Maybe that will prepare him. Make it more understandable how everyone reacts to him?" Maybe keep him from rejecting Dean out of hand, keep Dean from having his heart shattered. Again. He hesitated. Didn't get an immediate response from his wife. "Maybe?"

Jo still didn't answer right away, and Luke gave her a second, though his eyes strayed to the door. _Hurryhurryhurry_.

"I think... that sounds good," she finally said. "I'll tell Dean; and make sure the boys know that they need to be careful with Sam and not knock him off his feet in their enthusiasm."

"OK," he said.

"OK," she answered, softly, then brokenly, "Luke."

Luke felt the tears sting his eyes at the emotion in her voice. "I know," he whispered. "I'm bringing him home."

* * *

Luke could see Sam still waiting for him when he exited the sheriff's office. Luke got in the truck and drove the four blocks up the street to where Sam was now standing awkwardly.

"Thanks for waiting," Luke said, getting out of the truck.

Sam was eyeing him curiously, and Luke couldn't help but wonder if his face was giving away the turmoil he was feeling. He cleared his throat and pointed to a ragged backpack at Sam's feet. "That need to go with us?"

Sam nodded, reaching for it.

They climbed into the truck, the dog jumping in ahead of Sam, dropping onto its haunches to sit on the seat between the two men. Dean stared happily out the front window, tongue lolling contentedly, contemplating the view before turning his head to lick Sam's cheek, pleased to find his master's face even with his own. Sam smiled and patted him roughly.

"You ready?" Luke asked.

The smile slid from Sam's face, but he nodded. "Yeah."

They'd been on the road about five minutes when Luke decided to broach the subject of Sam's identity. He briefly considered stopping the car, but was a little afraid Sam would bolt if the truck wasn't moving. So he kept the speedometer steady at 70 mph in the hopes that would keep the kid from throwing himself headlong out of the vehicle if Luke's revelation spooked him too bad.

He cleared his throat. Both Sam and Dean turned their heads to look at him.

"There's, uh, something we should probably talk about before we get home," he said. Sam stiffened in his seat, and Luke congratulated himself on deciding not to stop.

"You said your name was 'John.'" Luke turned to Sam. "Are you sure about that?"

Sam went completely still, face paling as he stared at Luke. He didn't speak, but Luke didn't press him. Just caught the boy's eyes quickly but steadily before he looked at the road again.

Sam breathed out a long, unsteady breath. "No," he finally whispered.

Luke nodded, grateful that Sam evidently was willing to trust him with that. Maybe recognized something, even unconsciously.

"Why do you think it's John?" Luke asked.

"I..." Sam stopped. "Why do you think it's not?" he asked instead. And Luke couldn't help the smile. _Cautious._ _Smart boy._

Luke turned to meet Sam's eye before he said softly, "Because I think your name is 'Sam.'"

Sam blinked at him, and his arm was around the dog now, holding Dean tight. "Why?" he whispered.

"Because you're Sam Winchester," he answered.

After a moment of silence, Sam asked, "How do you know?"

"Because I know you. And your brother.

When Luke turned to Sam, the boy was staring at him, eyes wide.

"My brother?" he whispered.

Luke glanced at the dog and then at Sam again, a smile quirking his lips. "Dean." The dog reacted to its name and, if possible, Sam's eyes got even wider.

"Seriously?" he asked.

Luke's smile morphed into a truly evil grin. "Yep. And don't think I'm ever going to let either of you forget this."

"Where's... my brother?" Sam asked. His eyes went to the dog and he ran a soothing hand down Dean's back. Luke wasn't sure who the petting was really intended to comfort – the dog or its owner.

"He's at our place. Showed up on our doorstep a few months ago. Thought you were dead."

Sam didn't say anything for a long minute, digesting this. "What happened?" he finally asked.

Luke glanced at Sam and then away. "I'm not sure exactly. Dean's been... I think maybe that's something your brother needs to tell you." He waited, chewing thoughtfully on the inside of his cheek. "What do you remember?"

Sam shook his head. "Just waking up in a hospital," he said lowly. "Nobody knew..." He gave Luke a rueful look. "John Doe," he said, pointing at himself.

"Ah," Luke said. "Your dad's name was 'John,'" he said slowly.

Sam swallowed hard. "Oh," he breathed. "Is he...?"

"No," Luke said. "Both your parents have passed." He tried to be gentle, not sure how Sam would react. "It's just you and Dean."

Sam nodded tightly. Paused. "And you?" he asked. "How do... we know you?"

"Friends. You boys have been using us as a home base of sorts." He met Sam's questioning expression with a smile. "You've been on a road trip with your brother."

Nodding again, Sam watched Luke for a minute, brow wrinkled in thought. But the boy seemed to have run out questions for the time being and just turned to look out the window, arm hooked tightly around the dog.

They rode the rest of the way in silence.


	4. Chapter 4

As they pulled behind the little motel, the sheriff turned and asked carefully, "You want to stay in the car for a second while I catch everyone up?"

The tightness in Sam's chest had increased what felt like exponentially as they'd driven, and the thought of facing his brother, this brother who he didn't know, who had thought he was dead, was making it difficult to breathe. He looked gratefully at the man next to him. "Yeah," he whispered. "OK."

But as they were approaching the front of the house, a figure emerged from the shadows near the door, almost sprinting across the porch and down the stairs.

"Damn," Luke breathed, stopping the truck where it was. "Stay here," he ordered before he jumped out of the cab and moved quickly toward the man who approached.

Not even realizing he was doing it, Sam pressed back into the seat, arm tightening around his dog, pulling the animal close. Dean whined in response, turning his cold nose into Sam's face as the man the sheriff was going out to meet turned hot eyes toward the car. Sam couldn't keep himself from shrinking away from the intense gaze.

_Toomuchtoomuchtoomuch._

But the sheriff had gotten the guy stopped, stepping in front of the younger man to block his path. There was a brief scuffle before his brother ( _his brother_ ) seemed to deflate abruptly, and the sheriff got him turned back toward the house, an arm over the guy's shoulder, pulling him close and talking urgently in his ear.

Sam's eyes followed them to the porch, and he noticed for the first time the huddle of people on the top steps—a woman and some boys, faces turning anxiously from the two men at the foot of the stairs to the truck and back again. There was a short conversation among the adults before the woman turned around, gathering the kids to her and shepherding them back into the house. The sheriff – Luke – said something to the guy and then began to walk back to the truck. Sam watched the younger man sit down on the bottom step, putting his head in his hands. Even from a distance, Sam could see the shakes that ran through his body.

"So." Luke had gotten back to the car and pulled Sam's door open. He nodded to the lone figure on the stairs. "That there's your brother, Dean. The woman and the boys are my wife and our kids. You'll see them later." He stopped, eyes shrewd as he took in Sam's tense posture. "You ready?"

Sam drew in a shaky breath and looked at his brother, then back at the sheriff. "Yeah," he said and got out of the truck. The dog dropped down next to him.

As they walked slowly toward Dean, Sam cut a glance at the man next to him, wondering briefly why he trusted him, why he _believed_ what this sheriff he didn't know had told him about who he was. He'd spent the last weeks and months trusting no one except the dog trotting at his heels, yet it was only now occurring to him that it was possible this story was a load of crap.

But... It didn't feel like crap. It felt like the truth. In the weeks since he'd woken without a memory of himself, Sam had learned – sometimes painfully – to trust his gut. To listen to the urges that said "stay here" or "keep moving" or "run— _now_." And even though he was nervous, uncertain, neither were feelings that told him this was wrong.

As he and the sheriff approached the house, the guy on porch steps climbed carefully to his feet, watching them intently. Or more accurately, watching _Sam_ intently. Sharp and assessing, the man's eyes took in every detail of him, running from the top of his head, over his face, jaw tightening at what he saw there, down his torso and legs, shifting, startled to the dog, then back up to Sam's face.

His brother didn't smile, didn't by expression give any visible sign of welcome or relief, but Sam still blinked under the onslaught of emotion being telegraphed through the green eyes that seemed to be trying to absorb him.

When they got to Dean, the sheriff shifted his position, moving from Sam's side to Dean's.

"So," the sheriff said awkwardly. "Sam, this is Dean."

Not sure what to do, Sam held out his hand hesitantly. "Hey," he said.

Dean's eyes dropped from Sam's face to the hand extended toward him. And like he was in a daze, reached out and grasped it.

Flesh met flesh and Dean made a sound like a jagged sob. Without warning he stepped straight into Sam, pulling him into an embrace, arms coming around him.

"Sam. God. Sammy."

Sam froze into stiffness, completely unprepared for the physical contact, and it took everything in him not to shove back at the solid frame that was holding him so tightly, trapping him. His eyes skittered to Luke, who had frozen in surprise as well, but who snapped out of his momentary stillness quickly. The sheriff took a short step forward, eyes meeting Sam's, understanding the panic there, but steadying, too, as he nodded reassurance at the younger man. He put a hand on Dean's back.

"Hey," he said softly. "Ease back, kiddo. Ease back."

Sam continued to hold himself completely rigid, unable in that moment to return the fierce embrace. There was some part of him that responded to the naked need of the man who was holding him, that wanted to provide some sort of comfort, but the rest of him couldn't move, stuck on _danger_ and _don't touch me_ and _who the hell are you?_. Sam forced himself not to struggle or start flailing, to tamp down his own desperate need to be free.

But his brother responded to the sheriff's quite admonition, pulling away immediately, though his hands stayed, fisting against Sam's biceps.

"Sorry," Dean said roughly, fingers tightening almost painfully on Sam's arms before he finally dropped his hands, taking another step back. "Sorry."

"'s OK," Sam said, though he couldn't stop himself from easing a little further away.

Dean's hand came up and wiped roughly down his face before he shoved both hands into his pockets. They stood there, the three of them.

"That your dog?" Dean asked finally, clearing his throat. Dean the dog had not reacted at all to Sam's discomfort with the hug and sat next to him, panting happily up at Dean the brother.

"Yeah," Sam said, bending slightly to pat the animal.

"Dean," said the sheriff.

"Yeah?" Dean turned at the sound of his name. So did the dog.

"No," the sheriff said. "The dog. That's his name." His lips were pressed tightly together, trying not to grin. "Sammy named his dog after you."

For a second Dean looked kind of hilariously affronted, but then his expression shifted as he seemed to grasp the ramifications of that. He turned to Sam.

"You did," he said.

Sam didn't know why he would blush, but he felt strangely exposed and the heat of embarrassment rose in his face. "I didn't..." _know_ he wanted to say.

And he hadn't. But the name had meant something to him, obviously. Like talking to the dog had made him feel less alone, like just saying "Dean" to the agreeable mutt had always eased the knot that lived in his gut. And what did that say? "Yeah," he finished instead. "I guess I did."

They stood there again, but it was a different silence now. Considering. Recognizing.

The sheriff cleared his throat. He put a hand on Dean's shoulder, squeezing briefly.

"Y'all take your time. I'm going in." And with that he left them alone.

"You want to sit?" Dean asked, already lowering himself to rest on the bottom step.

Sam followed suit, sitting a couple of feet away.

Dean gave him a quick glance before turning his attention to his apparent namesake. He held out a hand. "Hey, buddy," he said.

The dog sniffed him politely, then fell over on his back, exposing his belly for a pat. With a startled laugh Dean leaned forward to oblige, laughing again as the dog's hind leg started to jerk violently when Dean found a good spot. "Oh, you like that, huh?" he said, scratching harder. He looked at his brother. "He's kind of a pushover, isn't he?" he asked in amusement.

Sam's eyes went from his dog to his brother. "Not usually, no," he answered.

Dean blinked, but didn't say anything in response. After a second, he turned his attention back to the dog and continued his rubbing. When he finally tired of petting Dean and stopped, the dog flipped back up to a standing position and after checking in with Sam for a brief scratch, wandered off, nose to the ground. The Winchesters watched him without speaking for awhile.

"What happened to your face?" Dean asked into the silence.

Sam turned to his brother and was surprised by the intensity of Dean's gaze despite the quiet words. Sam shrugged. "Got jumped," he said, looking away, going for casual before he flicked his eyes back to his brother. And was surprised again by the raw anger he saw there, Dean's face hardening into a mask that made him almost unrecognizable.

Without even thinking about it, Sam scooted closer, wanting to make that expression disappear. "Dude, it's OK. I'm OK. Actually. I kinda kicked their asses," he said with a hint of a smile and some bashful pride. And he really had.

He'd been ambushed by three guys, a first for him as his size (and the dog) seemed to make most people think twice about attacking him. He'd been holding his own (sorta), haphazard and desperate, aware of Dean's growls and the yells of the men the dog came in contact with, when suddenly it was Dean's yelp that rang through the air. High-pitched and hurting, Dean's sound of distress had triggered something in Sam that he hadn't been prepared for. All he'd known was that he had to save _Dean_ , and when he'd stopped thinking about protecting himself, his body had responded with a skill and strength Sam hadn't known he possessed.

When it was over, his attackers were unconscious on the ground around him, and aside from the one bad cut on his face and some deep bruises, Sam himself had been in pretty good shape. Even Dean, limping slightly, and holding himself stiffly hadn't been too badly hurt. Sam had gotten stitches at a free clinic and had actually managed to sweet-talk the young, moonlighting intern into giving the dog a brief exam.

Dean was still watching him closely, but Sam saw the tightness in his brother's face ease somewhat.

"Course you did," Dean gruffed.

He raised a hand and extended it toward Sam, much like he had the dog earlier, asking permission with his eyes.

Sam didn't let himself flinch away from the requested touch, giving his assent by keeping his eyes on Dean as the hesitant hand approached.

Carefully, Dean moved the lank hair away from the side of Sam's face, cocking his head on one side to get a good look at the wound that ran from Sam's eyebrow down his temple to the jaw line.

"Bottle?" he asked. When Sam nodded, Dean just said, "Someone did a good job with the stitches." And it occurred to Sam that it might be strange that his brother not only recognized the weapon that had injured him, but also the skill of the doctor who had patched him up.

Dean let his hand fall away and gave Sam a searching look. "Any other injuries?" he asked.

Sam shrugged. "Not really." And again there was something in Dean's expression that made Sam add quickly, "No, seriously. I'm OK." Something occurred to Sam. "You're older, huh?" he asked with a slightly rueful smile.

Dean looked stunned by the question, and Sam realized it wasn't because he was wrong, but because the fact that Sam had asked at all was an indication of how not OK things really were.

Dean cleared his throat. "Uh, yeah. Four years."

Sam nodded and sighed. "There's a lot, isn't there?" he asked quietly, looking at his brother. And was struck by the flash of grief and lostness that crossed Dean's face.

"Yeah," Dean whispered. But then he shook himself, squaring his shoulders as he met Sam's glance fiercely. "But we'll figure it out," he said with assurance. "You're alive, Sammy. And that's what matters."

Sam felt an unexpected surge of hope at Dean's words. "We'll figure it out," he agreed.

Dean nodded once decisively. "Damn straight."

And Sam laughed. Only to be greeted by the first real smile he'd seen from his brother, blinding in its brightness.

_Home_ , thought Sam without even realizing it. _Home._

* * *

"You ready to go in?" Dean asked. He looked over his shoulder, back up the stairs to the door. Knew there were four other people anxiously awaiting a chance to see Sam.

Sam bit his lip, self-consciously smoothing a strand of dirty hair behind his ear. He peered in the direction Dean had looked, nervousness in every line of his too-skinny body. He ran his hand over his hair again. "I'm kind of..." he trailed off.

"Rank?" Dean supplied innocently, grinning at the insulted look on his brother's face.

Then Sam snorted. "Yeah," he admitted. He pulled absently at the collar of the grimy t-shirt he was wearing.

"You wanna get cleaned up before you meet everyone else?" Dean asked. _Meet_. Damn, this was so wrong.

"Can I?" Sam asked unsurely, embarrassed.

"Sure. Stay here a second, OK?"

Sam nodded his acquiescence and whistled for the dog, who came loping back from wherever he'd been the last few minutes.

Dean couldn't help the last glance he cast over his shoulder at Sam before he let the door swing shut behind him. _Don't disappear, Sammy_ , he thought desperately, hating the panic that shot through him at having his brother out of his sight.

When he got to the kitchen, he was mobbed immediately.

"Where is he?" Tommy demanded. _Did you lose him again?!_ somehow implicit in his tone.

Dean got a grip on the boy, knowing that if he didn't Tommy would dart past him to check for himself.

"He's on the porch. He was wondering if he could clean up before..." He watched Jo, gauging her reaction. "I think he's embarrassed that he's so dirty. You know what a princess he is," he said with a testing smile.

Jo's face was a picture of worry and joy and bewilderment. "But... we don't care..." She looked around at Luke and the boys for confirmation. "It doesn't matter…" Michael and Jake were shaking their heads emphatically as Tommy started his escape attempt, trying to get free of the hold Dean had on him. They just wanted to see Sam, to touch him, to _know..._

But Luke was nodding his head in agreement with Dean. "I think..." he started. Stopped. Tried again. "Of course it doesn't matter to us," he said gently, "but... Sam doesn't know that. He... he doesn't remember. And I guess maybe he wants to make a good impression."

He looked at the boys. "Remember that we're new to Sam right now." He put an arm around Jo, pulling her to him tightly. "I know it's hard for us. But I think we need to let Sam do this in his own way, and if he wants to shower to feel comfortable, I think we should let him do that."

If Tommy looked mutinous, at least Michael and Jake seemed to understand, though they were disappointed. And Jo was nodding, even as she sighed.

"Of course we need to let Sam do what makes him feel more at ease. Dean. Sweetheart, we'll stay in the kitchen while y'all go to your room." She'd started cooking, and she looked around the room, planning out the logistics of reuniting with Sam and having supper. "There's no rush, OK? Let him take his time. You've got some of his clothes in your room, right? And if he has laundry, just bring it to me. I'll get things washed." She nodded briskly to herself, pleased with the plan.

Dean bit his lip. "He's got a dog," he said tentatively, not sure how that would fit into her strategy.

Jo frowned thoughtfully. "Do we know if it's house trained?"

Dean shrugged.

"Well, maybe for now canine Dean can stay outside." There was a twinkle in her eye, and Dean rolled his. "We can revisit that once we know a little more." She raised an eyebrow at him. "OK?"

"Yeah, OK," he agreed, a sudden shaky sigh breathing out of him. And he looked at Jo, almost dazed as the reality hit him.

"Dean," she whispered, awed, crossing the kitchen, crying now, to hug him. Dean slumped against her, pressing his face into her neck, laughing and crying himself. Around them, the kitchen erupted into shouts and he and Jo were body-slammed by the rest of the family.

Dean had never experienced a "group hug" before in his life, and he was almost knocked off his feet by the exuberance of this one as Tommy and Jake and Michael jumped up and down while they tried to maintain the grip they had on the group.

"OK, OK, OK," Luke finally laughed. "Let go. STOP!" he shouted trying to break free of the enthusiastic scrum. "Sam's going to think we've all gone crazy." He hooked an arm around Tommy's waist, detaching him from Jo, then pulled Jake and Michael off, swinging the youngest boy into the arms of his oldest brother.

Dean staggered a step when he was finally released, wiping his face. "OK," he said blinking at the joyful faces around him. "OK. I'm going to go get him."

And more wondering laughter and semi-hysterical chatter followed him out of the room.

When he got out the front porch, Sam was right where Dean had left him, petting the dog who was leaning up against him. Sam's eyes were wide when they met Dean's.

"Everything OK?" he asked nervously. Evidently the celebration had been audible from outside.

"Yeah," Dean said, unable to keep the grin off his face. "Everything's great. You ready? We can go back to our room, and you can get cleaned up before supper. Jo's making lasagna."

Sam had nodded, but his hand hadn't left the scruff of the dog's neck, clutching almost spasmodically at the fur there as his eyes darted from Dean to the door and back again.

Seeing this, Dean deliberately swallowed back what he realized was quickly becoming manic happiness at Sam's return. _Go easy_ , he thought. _Don't freak him out, he doesn't know..._

Dean took a deep breath. "Will he be OK out here?" he asked gently, indicating the dog with his chin. "Jo wanted to make sure he was house broken before he came in."

Sam blinked. "He'll be OK outside. I... I think he's probably trained, but we haven't been..." His eyes were focused on the top of the dog's head, and he swallowed convulsively, fingers continuing to knead into Dean's fur.

Slowly, Dean moved toward his brother and sat down carefully next to him. He put his hand on the dog's back, scratching gently. Dean the dog sighed happily at the additional attention.

"Sammy," Dean said softly. And was pleased when his little brother raised uncertain eyes to Dean's. This, at least, was familiar territory. "It's going to be alright, Sam, OK? I promise." He let every ounce of certainty and reassurance he had seep into his voice and his eyes. "We're going to take it slow, and it's all going to be alright."

Sam's eyes locked on Dean's and after a second he nodded. "OK," he said.

* * *

Sam followed his brother into the house, studying the rooms as they went, taking in the pictures and the clutter of books and games. It was a nice place, Sam thought absently. Comfortable, definitely lived in. The room Dean led him to was much the same. There were two twin beds, table between them, piled with magazines and a half-full glass of water. The dresser had a stack of clean clothes on one corner and a pile of dirty ones (Sam assumed) on the other. There were pictures there, too, and Sam could see one with the two of them and one with a crowd of people Sam thought must include the family that was currently hiding out in the kitchen.

Dean pulled one of the dresser drawers open and grabbed a pair of jeans, a t-shirt and some boxers. He then shoved them into Sam's arms.

"I hadn't gotten rid of your stuff yet, so..." _hadn't been able to face getting rid of your stuff yet_ , he said by way of explanation, already starting back toward the door into the hall.

Sam trailed after him into the bathroom and nodded along as Dean explained how the shower worked. _Hot. Cold. You can adjust the shower head..._ _use any of my stuff... Razor, shaving cream, toothpaste, toothbrush, deodorant..._

Sam blinked under the onslaught of instructions.

"Well." Dean was looking at him uncertainly. "I'll let you..." And then he was gone.

Sam stood for a second in the stillness Dean left in his wake feeling his heart pound unsteadily against his chest. He reached over to push in the button on the knob that would secure the door, then he sank onto the closed toilet seat. For a long minute, Sam rested his forehead on his knees, trying to even out the breathing that had started to hitch even as Dean had rattled on.

_It's OK,_ he said to himself. _It's going to be OK._ Settling eventually, Sam stood and stripped, then climbed into the shower.

In truth, Sam didn't remember ever taking a shower when he hadn't felt the urge of _hurry_ and _unsafe._ The vulnerability of the group shower rooms in the homeless shelters and YMCAs he'd stayed in had been conducive only to washing the worst of the grime out of his hair and off his body. Standing naked under lukewarm spray, Sam had never been able to shake the feeling of being watched and sized up. He'd been willing to endure it on occasion, but he didn't know that he'd ever really felt clean.

Standing now under the hot water, door locked, alone, Sam let the steam and the soap soak into his pores and his soul. He washed his hair three times before rubbing it full of whatever conditioner went with the shampoo, fingers working through snarls and tangles until he could smooth it out completely, felt it against his shoulders and the top of his back. Then he washed and rewashed every inch of his body, scrubbing in and around his ears, between his toes, reveling in the feel of being clean all over.

When the water finally started to run tepid, Sam stepped out of the tub and wrapping a towel around his waist, stood in front of the mirror to brush his teeth and shave. He took his time again, grimacing slightly at the odd tan line of his clean shaven face where his beard, thin as it had been, had protected the lower part of his face from the sun.

Finally pulling on the clean clothes Dean had handed him, Sam looked at himself again in the mirror. The jeans hung on him, starting to inch down his hips and the t-shirt was too big as well. Sam squinted at his image in the mirror. Well. He guessed he could probably gain some weight to make them fit again.

Squaring his shoulders – and hitching his pants up – Sam left the bathroom, making his way back to the bedroom he shared with his brother. Dean was there, sitting on the bed, waiting for him.

"Hey," Sam said, unable to stop himself from touching the ends of his long hair self-consciously.

Dean's head had come up the moment Sam entered the room, and he gave Sam an assessing look. Sam couldn't help the instinctual stiffening under the narrowed gaze.

"Dude," Dean said disapprovingly. "You were definitely a string bean when you finally started to sprout, but this is ridiculous."

Sam shrugged. And grabbed a handful of jeans before they fell off.

Shaking his head, Dean slid off the bed. "I've got a belt you can use." He rooted through a drawer and produced a well-worn brown leather one. He tossed it to Sam.

"Thanks." Sam threaded it through his belt loops, cinching it tight.

Dean studied him some more, but didn't comment again.

"You ready to eat?"

Stomach clenching uncomfortably, Sam said, "Not really." But then he laughed shakily. "No. I am. I guess."

Dean bit his lip. "You want to know about them?" he asked. And Sam nodded. Maybe that would help. If he knew...

"OK," Dean said, sitting again, and with a look inviting Sam to do the same. Sam sat gingerly on the bed across from his brother. Dean seemed to be thinking through what to say. "Did Luke tell you anything?" he asked.

Sam nodded again. "Some. That our mom and dad are... gone. That it's just us. And that they're friends of the family. That we use them as home base because we've been on a road trip."

Dean was nodding thoughtfully along with Sam's recitation of their background. He'd stopped and frowned slightly at "road trip," but then seemed to change his mind, nodding again. He sighed.

"Yeah, that's pretty close." He hesitated. "There's more. But for now I think that's pretty good."

Sam nodded. He'd figured there would be more. More history, more back story that he'd be given eventually. If he didn't remember. Wondered if he would ever remember.

"So we stopped here a couple of years ago for the night and just kind of clicked, I guess, with Jo and her kids. She wasn't married to Luke then, but that happened pretty shortly after we got to know them." He paused for a second. "Anyway. The boys are actually Jo's nephews, but their parents died a long time ago and she raised them on her own until she and Luke got together. Michael's the oldest, then Jake and Tommy's the youngest. I think Michael and Jake will be cool with everything. I mean, they're older and they understand. But Tommy..." Dean's forehead creased and Sam could read the uncertainty and worry there. "Tommy may... You and he have been really close. And he... He really had a hard time with your death." A muscle jumped in Dean's jaw and his eyes slid away from Sam. "I think it may be hard for him to understand that you don't remember." Dean was quiet for a second, not looking at Sam for a beat before he turned back to his brother. "So just. Be careful with him, OK?" Dean's voice was tight, and Sam noticed the shine in his brother's eyes before it was blinked away.

Sam swallowed heavily around the lump that formed in his throat at the expression on his brother's face. "I will," he whispered hoarsely. Cleared his throat.

When Dean looked at him again, Sam saw that his expression had eased somewhat. Dean smiled slightly.

"They're good people, Sam," he said. "And they love you." He paused, then added. "Be careful with all of them, OK?" he asked gently. And Sam nodded.


	5. Chapter 5

Jo wasn't sure how much longer she could wait for Sam before she stormed down the hall into the Winchesters' room to see him for herself. Or threw up. Either possibility seemed likely.

The anxiety and anticipation had been making her stomach churn painfully since Luke had called. They'd heard the shower cut off more than half an hour ago, and it had been all she could do, even then, not to make her way down the hall just to see if she could catch a glimpse of him. But under the questioning, nervous glances of her nephews, Jo had managed what she hoped was a reassuring smile and a steady, "Not too much longer."

Tommy had managed to fold himself into Luke's lap and sat with his chin hooked over his uncle's shoulder, watching the kitchen door. Luke, in turn, watched Jo, occasionally shifting his grip on the boy or rubbing a hand over his back when Tommy moved restlessly.

Michael and Jake were both sitting on the counter, propped against each other in the corner, legs stretched out in opposite directions.

Jake's foot twitched spasmodically. "Dude, seriously," he finally said grumpily. "How long does it take to shave?"

There was a moment of silence before Michael said, "Just because it only takes you two minutes to scrape the fuzz off your chin…" Then grunted when his little brother dug an elbow into his ribs.

"Shuddup," Jake mumbled, and Michael shot him a grin as Jo and Luke laughed.

"Hey."

Distracted by Michael and Jake, the family had missed Dean and Sam's appearance in the doorway. Of course.

They all clattered to their feet, the boys jumping off the cabinets, and Luke setting Tommy on the floor as he stood.

"Hey." Five anxious voices in chorus.

Sam stood slightly behind his brother. Shoulders folded in, head dipped forward to lessen his height, he was almost hidden by Dean. He watched them all uncertainly behind long, damp bangs.

Jo felt her stomach clench at the lack of recognition in the brown-green eyes. And tighten again when Dean led Sam into the brightness of the kitchen, and she saw how skinny he was, how carefully he held himself, like he was ready to run if anyone moved too suddenly. It was that woundedness Jo felt shatter her heart. And in a strange way steady her.

Smiling gently, Jo stepped forward. "Hey, Sam," she said softly, offering her hand to him. "I'm Jo."

Sam eyed her with an expression she didn't quite recognize. It wasn't really wariness, but it wasn't pleasure either.

"Hey," he said in return, stepping hesitantly around Dean, taking her hand in his. His eyes went to Dean, looking to his brother – even now – to see how he should react. Dean's easy, sad smile seemed to reassure Sam, and he offered her a twitch of his lips that might have been a smile, but might not have been.

The introductions were repeated around the small circle with the boys until Sam got to Tommy. When Sam squatted down to put himself at eye level with the younger boy.

"So, you must be Tommy, huh?"

Tommy had been holding himself completely still, leaning against Luke as Sam had shaken hands with his aunt and his brothers. Now, he held out his hand like everyone else had, clearly struggling to do what he'd been told and give Sam the space he needed.

"Yeah," he whispered. But when Sam took his hand, the tears that had pooled in Tommy's eyes suddenly spilled over. "Sammy," he said brokenly, tilting forward into Sam's arms.

Jo sucked in a surprised breath, unable to stop her instinctive reach for her youngest nephew to keep him from spooking Sam, afraid of Sam's reaction and what it might do to the grieving boy.

But Sam's arms opened, apparently without thought, and he caught the younger boy to him.

"Hey," he said, expression startled, but settling quickly. He didn't say anything else, but he didn't push the boy away either, just held him gingerly.

Jo lifted stinging eyes to Dean, who was blinking rapidly, eyes intent on the two boys crouched in front of him.

After a minute, Tommy pushed away, and he flushed guiltily as he looked up at his uncle. Luke just smiled, shaking his head wryly, reaching out to brush a knuckle over the tears on Tommy's face. "I'm sorry," Tommy said turning to Sam, "I…"

"It's OK," Sam said, patting the boy's shoulder awkwardly. "Are you OK?"

"Yeah," Tommy said on a mighty sniff, wiping his eyes with first one shoulder, then the other. "Sorry," he said again.

Sam shrugged. "s, OK." He bit his lip. "This is all pretty weird, isn't it?"

Tommy huffed out an unsteady laugh and smiled shyly at Sam, "Yeah, totally."

"Are you hungry, Sam?" Jo asked, hoping that a turn toward the mundane might help some with the transition.

Sam climbed to his feet. "Yes, ma'am," he said.

"Good." Jo cleared her throat. "I, uh, made your favorite. Or what, I guess, used to be your favorite," she amended uncertainly. "Do you…like lasagna? I…."

Sam smiled, hesitant. "It smells really good," he offered.

Jo returned the smile, the first she was sure she'd seen, pressing her lips together against the tremble she felt about to start there. "Why don't we sit down then?"

There was a confused scramble toward the table, starting and stopping and, as Dean would say, _awkward._ They all came to kind of stumbling halts around the table.

"Sam, you sit _here_ ," Tommy said, pointing to a chair opposite the one Sam had stopped at, the one next to Tommy.

"Oh," said Sam. He'd been standing by Dean, but started to change positions obediently, if haltingly.

"Tommy," Jake hissed at the same time Luke said reassuringly, "That one's fine, Sam." He leveled a look at Tommy. "It doesn't matter where you sit."

"But Sam _always_ sits next to me. Why…?"

"Y'all sit," Luke said firmly, putting a hand on Tommy's shoulder. "We'll be right back." Tommy's head dropped, and Luke guided him out of the kitchen.

"I'm sorry," Sam said, biting his lip worriedly. Jo saw the anxiety clear on his face, embarrassed by a faux pas he couldn't have anticipated, not sure of his steps and unsettled by it.

"Don't, sweetie," Jo said, taking a chance and putting a hand on his arm. "You didn't do anything wrong." If Sam flinched slightly at her touch, Jo did her best not to react, simply dropping her hand as she gestured to the boys. "Let's sit. Why don't I bless it? We'll let Luke and Tommy join us when they're ready."

Jo had just started the bread around the table when Luke and Tommy reappeared, Luke's hand was now on the nape of the boy's neck, squeezing gently as he released him. Tommy was subdued as he slid into his seat, pink-rimmed eyes flicking to Sam as he ate, saying little.

It didn't surprise Jo that conversation was stilted during the meal, but it made her heart hurt nonetheless. Sam was _alive_. _Alive_. Sitting at her table. But asking a question seemed as dangerous as venturing into a minefield. What had happened? Where had he been? How had he survived, not remembering and alone?

Lost in her own thoughts, Jo suddenly realized that an uncomfortable silence had settled over the table. She shook herself, reminded herself of her hostessing responsibilities, her mother's laughing admonition whispering in her head, _A lady never lets a silence fall._

"Um, Sam?"

Six heads came up from absorbed contemplation of their plates. Sam blinked at her through too long hair out of a too thin face.

"Yes, ma'am?" he answered.

"Did, uh, Luke tell me you have a dog?" She glanced at Dean. "That you named Dean?"

There were some snickers from the boys, and Luke didn't bother hiding his grin.

"Yes, ma'am," Sam said again, eyes also too wide as they made a circuit around the table, like he wasn't used to being addressed and actually expected to answer.

"How'd that happen?" she asked. "If you don't mind my asking."

Sam's deer-caught-in-the-headlights look didn't ease much, but he tried.

"I found him in Portland. It was raining and we ended up under the same bridge, trying to get out of the weather." He smiled at her shyly. "We just kind of hooked up, I guess." His face turned toward the front of the house, almost on its own.

"I'm sorry, honey. Did you want to check on him before we ate?" She felt like she'd been rude to a guest – whether it was Sam or the dog, she wasn't completely sure.

Sam's head now swiveled to his brother, checking.

"We did. Before we came in," Dean answered for both of them. "He's hanging out on the porch."

Jo nodded, wondering vaguely how they'd missed the Winchesters getting by the kitchen—and in and out of the house apparently.

"Does he need water?" she asked. "We don't have any food for him, Sam, but he can certainly have scraps until we can get him some."

Sam's smile was more genuine than she'd seen yet. "Scraps would be great, thank you. And we… we got him some water already."

 _In what?_ Jo couldn't help but think somewhat apprehensively. What the Winchester boys would think appropriate for a dog to drink out of was probably on par with what her teenagers would. She sighed, but still managed to smile gamely. "Good."

Jo looked at the boys, one of whom had stopped eating his vegetables. "Jake, that doesn't get you out of your green beans," she said severely, and he grimaced at her.

"Can we see him?" Tommy now, asking his question carefully, looking first at his parents, then Sam.

"Sure," Sam said, careful, too. "If that's OK with…."

"After supper," Luke said loudly to stay the sudden frantic movement of chairs being shoved back from the table. "Dishes done."

Grumbling sighs as chairs were scooted forward.

* * *

"He's pretty dirty," Sam said apologetically as they all tromped out to the front. "I've never really given him a bath. He…"

"Tommy, let Sam go first," Luke said from the back of the pack. "You know better than to…."

"I was gonna wait," Tommy lied as he slowed. Michael grabbed his arm and tugged him further back.

"We don't want to overwhelm Dean," Jo said, and there were more giggles. They were going to have to figure out what to do about the dog's name.

Dean rolled his eyes. "Yeah, that's hilarious every time."

When Sam opened the door, Jo saw a medium sized dog surge to its feet, tail already wagging, then speeding up when it saw Sam. He would be a good-looking dog, Jo thought, though he shared the scruffy, half-starved look of his owner right now. He was an interesting color combination of brown and white and black, short-haired with triangular ears that stood straight up from his head. He had skinny legs to go with a long skinny tail that Jo suspected might leave a bruise if it came into contact with a shin, it was moving so fast.

"Hey, bud," Sam said, going down into a crouch in front of the dog. His arms went around the thin, wriggling body, face pressed quickly into dirty fur, before his fingers started to rub energetically down the dog's neck and sides. In ecstasy, the dog whined his pleasure, trying to lick Sam's face. Laughing— _laughing_ —Sam angled his chin away. "Cut it out," he admonished. The dog paid as much attention as one might expect given the indulgent tone in Sam's voice.

The family stood still, waiting be noticed again.

Finally, Sam pulled back, wiping a quick hand over his now damp face. He cleared his throat as he stood. The dog's rear end sank to the porch, and his tail beat out a steady rhythm as it looked into the faces above it.

Jo was entranced.

"So. This is Dean." The dog's tail thumped more quickly in response to his name and then even faster at the laughter his reaction produced.

"Can I…?" Tommy had already slipped Michael's grasp, holding his hand out and looking eagerly at Sam.

"Sure," Sam said with a grin.

"Hey, buddy," Tommy crooned as he eased closer. The dog's nose extended to meet the boy's hand, tongue flicking out, and Jake and Michael followed their little brother's lead, crowding in when it was clear that Dean wasn't going to have a problem with that many people paying attention to him.

The adults stood to the side as the boys began their worship of the four-legged Dean. Jo noted that one of her good crockery cereal bowls was serving as watering dish, no doubt rinsed out in the bathroom sink after being retrieved from under Dean's bed. She shook her head.

"Did you train him, Sam?" Luke asked wonderingly. The dog was remarkably well-behaved, playful as the boys coaxed him into the yard looking for things to throw, but gentle, too, not nipping or starting at the sometimes clumsily enthusiastic attention Tommy was lavishing on him.

Sam shook his head. "He came that way," he said. "Sits and stays. Polite." He shrugged. "I guess he got lost. I can't imagine anyone would abandon him. He's such a good dog."

"Which," Luke said thoughtfully, "begs the question of how the name 'Dean' just seemed to fit?"

"Hardy har har," Dean said.

* * *

Sam didn't know how to get away.

After the time outside with the dog, they'd all migrated back into the house, with promises extracted from Jo (by Tommy) that the dog could come in once he was clean and from Sam (also by Tommy) that Tommy could help give Dean his bath. Which should be interesting.

But after the easiness of those moments, the oppressive weight of everyone's attention and concern had returned with a vengeance. There hadn't been any more even casual questions, never mind the obvious questions that seemed to have the entire family – Dean oddly excluded – casting anxious, curious glances at him as they all tried and failed to watch a movie.

Sam was tired and confused and a little beyond freaked out at the change in his circumstances over the last few hours. In a matter of an afternoon, he'd gone from having no family, no friends and no home to having a brother, friends who clearly loved him, and a room of his own to share with said brother.

But the idea of sleeping in that room, of sharing it with Dean, of being hemmed in— _trapped in a room_ —with a man he didn't _know_ , after spending so much time alone and out of doors was making Sam feel like he was about to jump out of his skin. Even now, just sitting here, it was beginning to feel like he couldn't _breathe._

"I should probably…," he started nervously. "You said you had an extra room?" Sam ventured the question at almost 10. He couldn't look at Dean, slid his eyes to Luke from where he was sitting on the couch.

There was a moment of surprised silence before Luke, sliding his own eyes across Dean to Jo started, "Uh…"

"But you have a room," said Tommy almost indignantly. "With Dean. Y'all…"

"Tommy." Low warning from Luke.

Silence.

Sam swallowed, biting his lip. "I don't… I don't want to….I just…"

"It's OK, Sam, you don't have to explain." Dean's face was composed, though even now Sam could identify the careful control in his brother's voice. "But you don't have to go to the motel. You take the room. I'll sleep out here."

Sam's face fell. "No, that's… I don't want to put you out of your room, man. I'll just…"

Dean huffed out an impatient breath. "Dude, it's not _my_ room. It's o…" He stopped. "It's your room, too." He stood. "I've slept on the couch plenty of times. The room is yours." He didn't look at Sam. "I'll get my stuff, and you can go to bed if you want." He walked out of the room.

Left Sam staring after him with his mouth hanging slightly open.

"I didn't mean…." In spite of Dean's assertion to the contrary, Sam fumbled to explain. He looked at Luke. "I can…"

But Luke's face had crinkled in concern, gaze following Dean, and Sam couldn't form the words, couldn't coordinate the scramble of fear and relief and desperation into any sort of coherence. "I…" he started again, but stopped.

"I said you didn't have to explain." Dean was back, tossing a stack of quilts and pillows onto the couch. "Go to bed, Sammy," he said, gruff, but gentle, too. Dean's eyes came to Sam's and all Sam saw was an understanding he wasn't sure what to do with and a compassion that made his throat ache. "You're exhausted."

Sam clenched his teeth together trying to maintain some sort of control before nodding tightly. "Yeah. Thanks." Getting up from the sofa, Sam didn't make eye contact with anyone else in the suddenly silent room, feeling sure of their reproach for his behavior, not wanting to have to acknowledge it. But still, at the door he paused. "Thank you," he said again. "For dinner."

When he turned to look at Jo, she was smiling at him, a sheen of tears in her eyes. Understanding there, as well. "You're welcome, baby. Welcome home."

Sam fled.

* * *

And even after all that, Sam couldn't sleep.

He lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling, unable to calm his thoughts or ease the weird rhythm of his heart. Without realizing he was doing it, Sam reached out for the dog. Felt an unwanted ache of loneliness at his absence. _Damn it._

Stealthily, Sam slid out of bed, unconsciously holding his breath as he paused in a slight crouch, listening for sounds of a threat, shook his head with an unsteady huff of exasperation when he remembered. _Safe here._

 _Maybe_ , he couldn't stop himself from amending.

He didn't bother with his shoes, not sure where they were anyway, and pushed the bedroom door open, listening again for sounds from the front of the house. He glanced back over his shoulder at the clock. 2:13. Surely everyone would be asleep.

Carefully he padded down the hall toward the den and in spite of himself, stopped when his attention was caught by the figure on the couch. He took a cautious step forward, poised to run or duck or something if his brother woke. But Dean didn't stir.

Sam frowned down at the man stretched out along the cushions. It was a long couch, and Dean, despite his height was fully extended on his stomach. The tips of his toes touched one end of the couch, the arm slung over his head just brushed along the fabric of the other.

For a long minute Sam watched his brother, waiting (hoping) to remember, for some shift of affection or recognition. But there was nothing. No twinge of memory or familiarity or…anything.

And Sam turned away, feeling a tug of disappointment lodge painfully in his gut.

The thing was, Sam knew already that he liked this guy. Knew there was something about this Dean that steadied him, that _did_ feel familiar in some weird way.

But it didn't feel _remembered_. And Sam was fighting a fear that it had been the simple word "brother" that was responsible for this feeling of safety, of belonging with this man and this family. And that didn't feel _true_. Not in the way he was sure memory would.

Sighing, Sam continued on his way, seeking out the Dean he knew _would_ offer some sense of comfort and companionship remembered.

Sam pulled the door shut behind him and the dog stretched out the kinks of sleep as he inched his way toward Sam, arching his back and reaching out with his front paws, tail wagging sleepily, yawning into a doggy smile. Sam smiled back, spoke around the ache in his throat.

"Hey, boy," he whispered. He sat down on the porch, feet on the first step, knees jack-knifed up to his chest, an arm around Dean – _his_ Dean – who leaned up against him, just the warmth and weight of him settling Sam's stomach.

Sam wasn't sure how long he'd been sitting there when he heard the door snick open behind him. The dog shifted to check out the newcomer, tail beating a fast staccato on the wood planks of the porch when he saw who it was.

Whoever it was didn't say anything, and Sam didn't turn around himself, just felt his shoulders tighten at the invasive presence. _Please, just leave me alone. I don't_ _remember_ _. I can't…._

Surprisingly light steps, also barefoot, made their way across the boards, and Sam heard the creak of the swing as someone sat in it, the squeak of chains as the chair started to move.

Sam refused to look to see who it was (though he suspected), didn't want to talk or listen or interact in anyway. So he ignored the movement behind him, kept a tight hold on the dog, who turned back to wipe a wet tongue over Sam's cheek before relaxing against Sam's side again.

Braced as Sam was for it, there was no offer of anything from the slowly moving swing.

Sam scowled to himself. _Go away._ And found the uneasiness and nervousness begin to morph into something else – frustration and anger. _I'm doing the best I can. It's been 12 freaking hours. Give me a chance to…_

"Dude. Unclench."

Sam couldn't help the startled snort that escaped him at Dean's drawled words. He turned to look at his brother over his shoulder.

Dean was smiling at him slightly, eyes shadowed. "You workin' yourself into being pissed?" he asked.

And Sam blinked at the knowing look on his brother's face. Felt himself still when the smirk faded into seriousness.

"Look," Dean started. Stopped.

Sam surprised himself by being willing to wait. Watched Dean struggle with something before he tried again.

"Sam, there's no pressure here, OK? I know this is… hard. I know it feels like there are all these expectations about who you are and what you should do. But there aren't, alright?" Except that even as Dean was saying it, his head bobbled back and forth. "OK. There probably are, but… we know you don't remember." Dean stopped for a minute and Sam wondered if that was going to be it. But then Dean cleared his throat softly. "I know I'm a stranger to you." There was another heavily laden pause, another careful scrape of sound across Dean's throat. "And, yeah, that sucks. But don't… Don't take all that on, OK? It's not your fault. And we … we've got time, alright? To figure this out."

Sam met Dean's eyes and let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, tension draining out of him slowly at the acceptance he saw there. "Yeah," he whispered. "OK."

Releasing a pent up breath of his own, Dean nodded, giving the swing a shove with his toes.

"I'm sorry, though," Sam went on softly. Tried to make Dean see that he was when the green eyes came back to him. "That I don't remember."

Dean's throat worked as he searched his brother's face. And Sam saw the brief flicker of acknowledgement in Dean's eyes. "I know."


	6. Chapter 6

Jo had a hard time sleeping and was relieved when 5 o'clock finally rolled around so she could get out of bed. She looked in on Dean briefly, adjusting the blanket over him, before she continued on to the kitchen, starting coffee and dragging out her Bible in the hopes of finding a little peace for her head and her heart.

"Oh. S- sorry," Sam stuttered, startling Jo about 20 minutes later, tripping over his feet in his haste to get out of the room.

"Oh," Jo echoed, jumping up. "N- No, Sam, that's alright," she stammered herself, stumbling over the chair she'd upended as she'd stood. "Come on in."

Sam faltered in the doorway when she spoke, flight halted. They both stood there awkwardly.

"Are you hungry?" she offered. Added, "There's coffee."

Sam's eyes slid to the coffee maker, then back to Jo. "I could eat," he admitted.

Jo practically leapt toward the stove. "Would pancakes be OK?" she asked eagerly. _Pathetic_ , she told herself, even as she looked back to check Sam's reaction.

There was a brightening in Sam's eyes at the suggestion, though he just said, "Yes, ma'am," politely, moving toward the coffee, one eye keeping cautious track of her as he edged forward.

_He's in there somewhere_ , she thought.

"OK," she said, relieved. _I can do this._

She made a point not to chatter at him as he poured his coffee, bit down on the temptation to do so – just told him where the cream and sugar were. He'd been surprised by the information, she thought, but had ducked into the fridge for the half and half, carefully adding a couple of teaspoons of sugar to his coffee as well before taking a seat. Jo let him sit in peace, moving her things out of the way off the table as she cooked.

"Here you go, baby." She said the endearment without thinking when she put his plate in front of him, just stopped herself from smoothing his hair away from his face.

He froze when she spoke, head ducking down, shoulders tensing with discomfort.

"Sorry," she whispered, hand coming up of its own accord toward his arm, wanting to comfort, checking the motion again even as he jerked out of her reach, swallowing hard. "I..."

She took a step away from him, turning back to the sink. She put the mixing bowl under the tap and turned on the water, forcing herself to concentrate on the mundane. She wasn't sure exactly what had happened, but clearly she'd crowded him—over-eager and over-familiar in a way that had made him uncomfortable.

_Slow down_ , she scolded herself, trying to ignore the stab of hurt. _Just ease back._

"It's OK." Whispered behind her from the table. There was a moment of silence, then the scrape of a fork across the plate.

"These are really good," Sam said with tentative pleasure and what she thought might also be the hope of an olive branch extended.

Jo kept her eyes on the rag she was using to wipe down the counter, felt the tears she'd been trying to control spill over. _This is all new to him._ "Thanks," she said, wiping her eyes with her shoulders, keeping her back to Sam. "They're your favorite."

There was a beat of nothing. Then, "Oh." And, "I can see why."

Smiling again, Jo finally turned and met Sam's eyes. "You want some more coffee?" she asked.

* * *

Sam was finishing up a second round of breakfast, this one with blueberry pancakes and sausage and eggs and a room full of Sweeds when Dean stumbled in. The family had been noisily discussing plans for the day, mostly ignoring Sam and letting him fade into the chaos like he wanted.

They were ranged around the kitchen, Michael and Jake sitting with Sam at the table, Tommy at the computer in the corner, Luke standing with Jo by the sink helping with the dishes.

Dean looked blearily and kind of grumpily around at everyone in the room. Sam watched his brother, trying to gauge what kind of mood Dean might be in after last night.

"Why's everyone up so early?" Dean asked peevishly, shuffling toward the coffee maker. He scowled unhappily when he found the carafe empty, giving it an annoyed, befuddled shake as if he expected more of the brown liquid to appear. Jo took it away from him.

"For heaven's sake, Dean, go sit down."

Dean grunted, but went obediently and slouched into a chair.

Jo's semi-amused exasperation gave Sam the assurance he needed to comment on Dean's attitude. "So," he said. "Not a morning person."

Dean glared.

And Sam let the corner of his mouth tick up slightly.

There were some muffled snorts of agreement with Sam's observation, and, apparently taking Sam's words as an indication that Sam was now open for conversation, Tommy responded, "It's not just mornings. He's always really grouchy when he wakes up. Even if it's just from a nap."

Sam couldn't help the eyebrow he raised at his brother. _A nap?_

"What?" Dean muttered, giving Tommy a dark look, which was completely ignored. "Sunday afternoon naps are totally OK."

Sam nodded, face carefully neutral. _Sure, dude. Whatever you say._

Dean scratched his cheek with his middle finger and Sam grinned. Laughed when Jo smacked Dean on the back of the head as she put his plate in front of him.

"Watch it," she warned.

Dean ducked his head, picking up his fork and starting in on his breakfast.

"Sammy, can we wash Dean now?" Tommy ventured.

Both Sam's eyebrows went up, and he couldn't stop himself from glancing at his brother. There was another round of snickers from the peanut gallery.

Dean narrowed his eyes. "That's it," he gritted, pointing his fork at Sam. "The mutt gets a new name."

Sam bristled automatically. "Says who?" he demanded.

"Says me," Dean answered.

"He's _my_ dog," Sam said.

"Yeah, well, it's _my_ name."

"It's _his_ name," Sam insisted stubbornly.

"It was _my_ name first!" Dean shot back.

Sam felt his jaw clench. _So_ , he thought pettily, glaring. And was met by the same fire in his brother's eyes across the table.

"I don't care," Sam bit out. "He's _my_ dog, and you don't get to just change his name."

Dean opened his mouth, a hot reply clearly on the tip of his tongue, but he was cut off before the words actually made it out of his mouth.

"Why don't we table that conversation for now?" Luke said. He didn't raise his voice, but he sure wasn't asking for permission from either of the Winchesters. "The dog does need a bath, so maybe Sam can let us know how he wants to handle that, and we can go from there."

Dean continued to stare balefully at Sam. "Fine," he mumbled, looking away.

Sam's stomach lurched uncomfortably at the dismissal and was suddenly aware that his heart was pounding, that he'd actually clenched his hands into fists under the table. He took a deep breath, forcing himself to relax, conscious now of the concerned looks both he and Dean were getting from the rest of the family.

Sam cleared his throat, easiness gone, feeling alone again among these people he didn't know. "I don't..." He couldn't get anything else out, just sat, eyes dropping unhappily to the table top. He looked quickly at Dean, who was eating his breakfast with a fierce kind of attention, face stony. He didn't even glance at Sam.

"I've never... given him a bath. I don't know..." He gave Jo an embarrassed, helpless shrug, unable to formulate a plan, too distracted by the weight of his brother's displeasure, sitting heavily in Sam's stomach.

"Well," Jo offered it softly into the vibrating silence. "We have a hose out back. And I guess people-shampoo will be OK for a dog in a pinch, right, Sam?"

Haltingly, Sam nodded, eyes going to Dean again only to be ignored again. "Sure," he said.

"Well, then, why don't you go round up De- , the do-... our, uh, victim?"

Sam met Jo's eyes. She was trying so hard to walk whatever weird line there was between him and Dean.

"Yeah, OK," he said, and Sam could see the relief in her face at his words.

"We'll meet you outside in a few minutes? Give you two some time?" she added kindly.

Sam got to his feet, knowing she was trying to give him space, but fighting the feeling that he was being sent away. "OK," he said again. His gaze flickered to Dean one last time before going back to Jo. "Thanks." And headed for the porch.

* * *

"Holy _crap_ ," said Jake incredulously. "What was _that_?"

"Jake," Luke said sharply.

" _Please_ don't use that word," Jo snapped at the same time.

Dean had already gotten to his feet to take his half-empty plate to the sink. He set it down on the counter with a _clank_ that had Jo sharp with him now, "Dean."

"Sorry," he mumbled, moving it more carefully onto the stack in the basin.

"Dude, seriously, wh- "

"Jake. Out." Luke's tone was steel, and the kid finally heard it for what it was. "All of you," Luke went on. "Go upstairs. Leave Sam alone. Leave Dean alone. We'll let you know when you can speak to either one of them again."

"Seriously?" Jake asked again, but now he was staring, offended, at his uncle.

"What part of that _didn't_ sound serious to you, Jacob?" Luke asked.

With a huff, Jake stormed out of the kitchen.

Tommy watched his brother go, then looked around the kitchen. "We still get to help wash Dean, though, right?" he asked for clarification.

"Boy," Luke growled. Tommy scampered after Jake.

It was Michael's turn, and he raised an amused eyebrow at his uncle. "You're sending me to my room? Really?" But his tone was tolerant.

Luke lowered himself into a chair, giving Michael a _can you please just give me a break this one time_ look. "Keep them occupied for a little while so we can try to figure this out?" he asked, only slightly pleading.

Michael breathed out a laugh. "Yeah." He looked over at Dean, who was standing very still over the sink. "Little brothers are such complete pains in the asses," Michael said conversationally, and Luke watched the muscles along Dean's back loosen slightly.

Dean turned around on a small laugh of his own. He rested the heels of his palms on the counter behind him. "No shit," he agreed.

"Am I _not_ standing right here?" Jo asked. "Since when is that language allowed in this house? Or your mouths at all for that matter?" she asked severely.

"Since _never_ ," Michael _duh'd_. " _Dean_."

"You said ' _ass'_ first," Dean defended himself, hitting the questionable word with a special bit of emphasis.

"Yeah, well you said ' _shit_.'" Michael returned with relish. "And _shit_ ," he said again, "is, like, ten times worse than ' _ass_.'"

Dean was nodding his agreement thoughtfully. "Still. It's not as bad as _fu-_."

"Don't you _dare_ ," Jo interrupted him, clapping a hand over his mouth. Dean smiled around it. And Jo jumped away from him with a small scream when he licked her.

"Ew!" she said affronted, wiping her palm forcefully down his t-shirt, making a grossed-out face. "That's just disgusting."

Michael guffawed and raised his hand to Dean for a high-five. "That's _awesome_!" he said, as Dean obliged.

Jo made a show of washing her hand off, and Dean moved to pour himself some coffee, grin on his face.

Luke leaned back in his chair. "Are you all done now?" he asked, dryly, even as he gave Michael a quick approving nod when the boy headed out of the kitchen.

Jo was drying her hands as she said haughtily. "I am."

Dean sat down across from Luke. "Yeah, me, too." He sighed. "Sorry."

"What for?" Luke asked, genuinely curious – was it for the silliness of the last few moments or the fight he seemed to have been picking with Sam before that?

Dean shrugged, not looking at Luke.

Luke stifled a sigh and found himself unaccountably annoyed with everyone and everything involved in this whole messed up situation.

"Were you just being a brat to Sam because you hadn't had your coffee?" Luke asked.

He knew even as he said it that he was pushing too far, that Dean was not going to respond well to being picked at right then. But Luke did it anyway, giving the kid a halfway belligerent glare in spite of Jo's _tsk_ of disapproval at the question and his tone.

"Fuck you," Dean said softly.

Luke felt his eyebrows rise and around a hum of shock at Dean's answer, Luke heard Jo gasp. And it wasn't the word. It was the emotion underneath it.

"Do you want to go a round with me, kid?" Luke asked evenly, ignoring the common sense part of him that was practically yelling, _what the heck, you dumb hick? Shut yer trap._ It was a voice he usually listened to, that he relied on to keep him from making idiotic mistakes when some _other_ idiot decided to provoke him. "Because if throwing down with someone is going to make you feel better, boy, I can do that for you," Luke went on relentlessly. "But you better be ready to get put on your ass."

Dean's face tightened into something that Luke recognized from long ago, and he braced himself, both men shifting like they were getting ready to rise.

"Stop it!" Jo brought two hands down flat on the kitchen table. "Stop it right now! Both of you!" The near-panic in her voice made Luke blink, and he saw the same flash of reality come over Dean. _Good Lord._

"What is _wrong_ with you?" Jo asked shrilly.

Luke shuddered with the force of the adrenaline leaving him in a rush. "Nothing, nothing. I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Dean. Honey, I'm sorry." Luke sat back into his chair, putting his head in his hands. _Holy crap._ It was so easy to convince yourself you'd gotten your bad temper under control when so few people you really cared about ever made you angry.

"No, I'm sorry, man." Dean sounded as shaken as Luke felt. "Jo, I'm sorry."

Too much emotion—joy and fear and frustration and guilt and pain—packed into too small a space of time.

Luke looked over to see Dean retreat into a corner of the kitchen, arms crossed self-protectively over his stomach.

"Did something happen, Dean?" Jo asked shakily, worry all over her face.

Dean shook his head, focusing on his toes.

"No. Nothing happened. We... we talked some last night. After everyone was in bed. Sam was up and... I don't know, worrying, I guess." He hunched his shoulders slightly. "We just talked and it was OK, you know. Not great. No big revelation. But OK." He brought his thumb up to his mouth and chewed absently on the side of its nail bed. "And then this morning, I don't know. I just. Suddenly I was _pissed_. He just... Last night, he's sitting on the porch with his arm around that dog and looking at me without recognizing me. And he looks at the stupid dog, like..." His voice broke, and he shook his head. Angrily he pushed the heels of his palms into his eyes. "And he frickin' named it _Dean_ , and he doesn't... " He stopped, dropping his hands to his sides, so desperately unhappy. "And how _stupid_ is that? That I... It's just so _pathetic..._ " .

"It's not, honey, it's not," Jo was up and standing in front of him, hands on his arms, trying to comfort. "It..."

He ducked around her, sidestepping the attempt to embrace him. Though he didn't move too far out of her reach.

"And I guess I didn't help much by being a jackass, did I?" Luke asked wryly, apologizing in his own way and trying to distract Jo at the same time.

Dean wiped a hand down his face. Drew in a breath so careful it made Luke's chest ache a little. "No," Dean admitted with a tired smile. Then he laughed. "Do you really think you could put me on my ass, old man?" he asked.

Luke just raised an eyebrow at him in answer. Dean laughed again. More open now, with a smile that reached his eyes

"I swear that I am going to start washing people's mouths out with soap," Jo said tartly.

"Sorry, Josie," Luke said contritely.

"Me, too," Dean said, edging closer. He bumped his shoulder against hers.

"We're all under a lot of strain right now, I know," she sniffed disapprovingly. "But that's no reason to start up with that kind of talk."

"Yes, ma'am," they said in unison.

She shook her head, not completely placated, but finished scolding. She rested her hip against the kitchen counter, turning to give Dean a searching look. "Honey, have you called Bobby?"

Luke nodded his agreement. Bobby had a history with this boy, with _these_ boys, that translated into a kind of support, a certain _depth_ of support that Luke and Jo knew they couldn't provide.

Dean sighed. "Yeah. Last night. I left a message." He leaned against the counter next Jo. "But I talked to him a couple of days ago, and he said he was headed for a hunt that would keep him out of pocket for awhile."

_Crap_ , said Luke. To himself.

"Crap," said Jo.

* * *

Dean opened the back door to look for Sam; through the screen enclosing the porch, he saw Sam and the dog watching the two horses pull mouthfuls of hay off a messy bale. Sam was leaning, elbows on the top rail of the fence, while Dean stood right at his legs, nose extended to sniff, but warily. The horses – a bay gelding and a chestnut filly – were also watching carefully.

The filly kept an especially close eye on the dog. Then, without warning, she skittered suddenly around the yard, causing the dog to jump back. And bark shrilly. Both horses shied sharply and began to move nervously across the enclosed space.

Sam reached down and put a calming hand on Dean's head.

"Hush," he commanded softly. With a brief, protesting whine, the dog obeyed.

Dean raised an eyebrow, impressed. "Hey," he said.

Sam and the dog turned toward him as one, Dean the dog trotting forward for his greeting. Dean crouched down and complied, using the animal as an excuse not to look at Sam. "You ready to get a bath, buddy?" he asked.

"Dude," Sam started, but it was too late.

At the word "bath" the dog had bolted.

"Damn it," sighed Sam.

Left petting empty space, Dean stared.

"I'm pretty sure he knows that word," Sam said dryly.

Dean stood. He squinted thoughtfully at the whisper of dust that showed where the dog had rounded the corner of the house. "Sorry," he said, for more than just scaring the dog.

"Yeah," Sam said, mournful eyes on his brother. "Me, too."

And Dean felt his heart tighten at the familiar expression. _Well, he's still got that down_ , he thought.

"What do we do?" Dean asked.

Sam leaned again against the fence. "He did it to me earlier. There's no catching him," Sam said. "Best just to wait. He'll come back around."

Shrugging, Dean joined Sam at the corral. He put both feet on the lower rung of the enclosure and whistled. Two heads came around. Well, three, if you counted Sam's.

James, the gelding, responded first, lowering his head before he started over, bobbing his whole neck as he plodded sedately toward Dean.

Digging in his pocket, Dean produced a couple of pieces of carrot. He held one out to the horse on his open palm. James lipped the offering carefully out of Dean's hand. Looking over at Sam who had stepped up on the fence next to him, Dean held out the other piece of carrot to his brother.

Taking it, Sam extended his own palm forward, smiling at the feel of the soft skin and stiff bristles of James's nose tickling his hand.

Dean patted James on the neck, eyes moving toward the filly. "Hey, Dolly, girl," he said coaxingly. "You want yours?"

Shaking her mane flirtatiously at him, the horse moved closer. Dean dug another couple of carrots out of his pocket, handing one to Sam again. Holding them out to her, both Sam and Dean clucked encouragingly at her until she finally deigned to come get her treat.

"Do I ride?" Sam asked.

"Some," Dean said. "We didn't when we were kids, but have a little here."

Sam nodded.

They continued to pet the horses until the dog reappeared.

"Sammy," Dean said, eyes directing his brother's attention to the dog.

Sam followed his gaze. "Hey, buddy," he welcomed him, stepping off the fence and moving slowly toward the dog. "Come here, you big chicken."

Dean's tail wagged in response to Sam's voice.

"Yeah, that's it, bud. Come on." Sam kept his steps steady, non-threatening. The dog came to meet him, and Sam went down into a crouch. "Come here, boy," he said, more firmly now. And the dog responded with just the slightest of hesitations, breaking into a trot.

"Good boy," Sam, one hand getting a grip on the dog's collar even as he rubbed him briskly. "That's my boy. Good dog!" The dog was so busy with the attention he didn't notice when Sam slipped the rope through the leather strip around Dean's neck.

"Sucker," Sam said fondly as he stood.

Dean the dog looked at him reproachfully. But still followed Sam obediently, if reluctantly, when Sam gave him a tug toward the house and the hose.

The screen porch banged open. Tommy took all three steps in one jump.

"What do I do?" He had a bottle of inexpensive shampoo in one hand.

Jo followed behind with a stack of towels. "Sam, why don't you tie him up over there?" She pointed toward an old metal pole that still supported a laundry line Jo used occasionally. She gave her youngest nephew a look. "That's where we hose the boys down when they need it."

Tommy grinned at her. "'Member when me and Jake made that mud hole?"

Jo just shook her head. "How could I forget?" she asked wryly.

Dean "helped" by sitting on the back steps with Jake and Michael offering suggestions while Tommy and Sam washed the dog. Both younger boys ended up soaked. Because while the dog submitted fairly resignedly to the water and soap, he kept shaking himself at random intervals, dousing Sam and Tommy with first dirty water, then soapy water and finally a last showering of clean water.

Jo came out onto the porch just as Sam untied Dean and led him closer to the house, reaching for the towels. He flipped wet bangs out of his face, splattering his brother and the other two boys. Jo took a precautionary step back.

"Dude," Dean said, wrinkling his nose unhappily and angling his face away. Jake and Michael stood and also moved back in response, echoing Dean's disapproval.

Sam straightened and suddenly shook his head violently, flinging water everywhere. Laughing his approval, Tommy did the exact same thing, though with less effect because of the length of his own hair. There were shouts and threats as the dry ones tried to scramble out of the way.

Grinning, Sam shoved his hair back out of his face, tucking long strands behind his ears.

Dean couldn't help the twitch of his lips at the lightness of Sam's expression. But he tried to maintain his dignity as he flicked water off the end of his nose. "You so need a haircut," he said repressively.

Sam laughed, and sighed, blowing his bangs out of his eyes again when they flopped back into his face. "Yeah," he agreed. He'd fought with his hair the whole time he'd been washing the dog.

Dean had a sudden thought. "Jo's cut your hair before," he said innocently, wondering how short he could convince Sam he kept his hair. And if Jo would let him get away with it.

"Oh, yeah?" Sam said.

Jo had come back out to the steps, shaking a few drops of water off her fingertips. "If you want me to, Sam, I will." She gave Dean a look that said clearly, _I am so on to you_.

The wind blew enough hair over Sam's face to cover it. He shook it back again, fisting a handful into a makeshift ponytail at the nape of his neck, spitting some out of his mouth. "That would be great."

* * *

The movie ended and Sam stood, stretching his arms up over the head. Dean grunted and did his own stretching out along the sofa, taking over the space Sam and Dean the Dog had just vacated as he reached for the blanket he'd tossed onto the coffee table.

"Night, Sammy," he said easily, throwing the blanket out in front of him, kicking out to make the covers fall across his legs the way he wanted.

Sam bit his lip, frowning. Dean pretended not to notice, tired and ready for bed. He rolled onto his stomach and raised up slightly to pound sleepily on his pillow. He heaved out a sigh and face planted into its softness. His name-sake took the opportunity to push his cold, wet nose into Dean's cheek.

"Bleh," Dean complained on a muffled snort, shoving the dog away.

"You're sleeping out here?" Sam asked.

Dean turned his head to the side. Opened one eye to stare at his brother.

"Yeah." He drew out the word as if Sam had asked a stupid question.

Sam continued to frown.

Dean brought his head up off the pillow and pushed himself upright on his elbows. "What?"

Sam shrugged, looking at his brother disgruntledly. "I just. You movin' in out here or what?"

Dean thought about that for a second, trying to figure out what was going on. "Noooo," he said, drawing the answer out again as he studied Sam. Who frowned. Again. Some more.

"Nevermind," Sam snapped and stalked off down the hall.

The dog trotted after Sam with what Dean took to be an apologetic glance over his shoulder at him.

_What. The. Hell._

Dean had done everything he could over the last couple of days to go easy with his brother, not to press, not to demand. The whole family had been bending over backward to make sure Sam didn't feel pressured or cornered as he'd adjusted to being back.

They'd talked about mostly easy things – likes and dislikes, a little about Stanford and Jess, the barest of touches on Mom and Dad and their "road trip." Both of them – and Sam's reticence had surprised Dean – had so far steered clear of asking about exactly what had happened over the months they'd been separated. What had happened when Sam had been gone missing. Neither seemed willing or able yet to wade into those treacherous waters.

So they'd practiced good old fashioned avoidance, Winchester-style. They'd washed the dog and played with the kids and reintroduced Sam to people, and if Dean kept thinking that at some point Sam would turn expectant, questioning eyes on him and ask what the hell had happened, his little brother never did. Just continued to follow Dean's lead, always there, watching, listening, half a step behind, quiet in ways he hadn't been since he'd learned how to talk.

And on some levels Dean appreciated that. Because he sure as hell wasn't ready to talk about how he'd managed to leave his brother alone in the wilderness, injured and helpless. ( _And how had that happened? How?)_

But it was also kind of creeping Dean out.

They'd made progress, though, Dean thought. The tightness in Sam's shoulders had started to ease, and the wary, pinched look he'd worn just 72 hours ago had been replaced by something more open, more _Sam_. Curious mostly now, instead of suspicious, watchful instead of guarded.

This little hissy fit was completely unexpected, and truthfully, it kind of pissed Dean off. He'd been Mr. Sensitivity since he'd found Sam hunched over and freaking out on the front porch that first night. _(OK, his own melt down over the dog's name aside.)_ To have given Sam the space he thought Sam wanted and get smacked for it now was more than a little aggravating.

Dean tossed the covers back and followed after his brother. Did his best not to storm down the hall, trying to figure out what had set Sam off. He didn't knock, though, just shoved the door open.

Sam was rooting agitatedly through the drawers. Dean's drawers.

"What the hell, Sam?" Dean said as Sam jerked around to face him, holding one of Dean's clean t-shirts. His own were too big. "You're the one who wanted a private room." Dean said it sharply, in spite of himself

Sam took a step back, bumping into the dresser behind him, and Dean saw a flash of startled fear whip across Sam's face.

It was like having a bucket of ice water dumped over his head, and Dean took a deep breath. Forced himself to stop the forward movement toward his brother. The dog was on Sam's bed – where he was no more supposed to be than he had been the couch – head on his paws, watching.

The fear on Sam's face was gone as if it had never been there, replaced by embarrassed belligerence. And that was a look Dean knew. Recognized it from Sam's adolescence.

_Oh, crap_ , he thought with resignation.

Dean made himself go perfectly still. Sam's jaw clenched angrily, and Dean steeled himself.

Because this was where it had always started with Dad. Sam backed into a corner—sometimes literally, most times figuratively—scared or embarrassed or angry or, like as not, all three. Dad up in his face, trying to get Sam to back down from whatever issue the two of them had decided was life or death; Sam, feet planted, head lowered like a bull just before it charged.

And here it was, Sam squaring his shoulders, powering up for a fight that Dean had just decided wasn't going to happen.

"One night," Sam bit out. "The first night, I just..." He stopped, jaw jutting as he switched into attack mode, arms spreading out from his sides like they always did when he was agitated or angry, palms open, fingers coiled, his own version of _come on_ or _bring it_ or whatever the hell it was. "And if you want to punish me for..."

Which was just so goddamn unfair that Dean almost lost his resolve right there, almost stepped into Sam's space, taking up the gauntlet. _You want to fight, little brother? Cuz I'll_ _give_ _you a fight..._

He ground his teeth together.

_Donotresponddonotrespond. This is Sammy frustrated and feeling out of control and... Do not punch the ungrateful little bitch in the face. Do not..._

Dean drew in a breath. "That's not fair and you know it," he heard himself say calmly.

_Huh._

Sam swallowed, shoulders dropping slightly, fingers curling into clenched fists, anger defusing, even if the frustration remained. He didn't say anything else.

"If you're OK with me being in here again, you tell me, man," Dean said.

Sam paused, then nodded curtly, eyes on Dean's face.

"OK," Dean responded. "I'll get my stuff."

When Dean returned, arms full of quilts and pillows, Sam wasn't in the room, but Dean could hear the shower running. Sighing, he dropped the extra bedclothes onto the floor and tossed the pillows onto his bed. He took a second to turn out the overhead light and give the dog a good-night scratch before he climbed into bed with just the lamp between the beds illuminating the room.

Dean didn't acknowledge Sam's presence when he got back from his shower, and Sam stayed silent as he moved around the room, though Dean knew his little brother well enough to know that Sam was watching him furtively at the same time, hoping that Dean would move or open his eyes or allow some sort of opportunity for Sam to start talking. Stubbornly Dean held himself motionless ( _I'masleepI'masleepI'masleep_ )and after a pause between the beds followed by some muttering and jockeying for position between the dog and Sam in the other bed, the lamp switched off.

There was a long enough silence for Dean to think maybe they were done with this for the night.

"Dean?"

_Oh for the love of..._

"What, Sam?" More of a bite than he'd meant.

Beat.

"I'm sorry."

Dean sighed. "'s OK."

"You're not mad?" Tentative. Like Sam was five again.

Trying to figure out his big brother. Wanting to learn him.

_Oh._

_Right._

And Dean wasn't nine this time. Could offer more than a frustrated, half-way yelled, "Jeez, Sammy! I just said it was OK, didn't I?," as reassurance.

Barely.

"I'm not mad," Dean said.

"I didn't mean..."

_The kid never could just let it go._

"I know you didn't." Dean interrupted, holding on to his patience, knowing that Sam would continue to lie there in the dark trying to figure out whether they were really OK if he wasn't sure. Because that was what he did. What they both did. "Go to sleep, Sammy," he ordered gently. "It's OK. Really."

There was a heavily shaky sigh from the other bed. One that Dean knew signaled Sam's acceptance of what he'd said. "OK. Night, Dean."

Dean smiled to himself. "Night, kiddo."

* * *

Jo scrambled a bunch of eggs, keeping an eye on the door as she did, waiting.

Over the last few days, Sam had consistently been the first one up and this morning was no exception. She heard the click of the dog's nails on the hardwood floors before he and Sam came into the kitchen.

"Mornin', sweetheart," she said as they came in.

"Mornin'," Sam responded with a small smile, heading toward the pantry and the bag of dog food that was slouched on the floor there. The dog came over to say good morning, nose reaching toward the kitchen counter, checking out what she was cooking.

With a quick glance at Sam's back, Jo dropped a piece of bacon into the dog's waiting jaws. He swallowed it almost whole, the crispy piece disappearing down his gullet in two gulps. She leaned down to scratch behind his ears.

"Hey, sweet pea," she crooned. "How did you sleep?"

The dog peered up at her happily, tail beating a rhythm on the floor as he collapsed against her. "Who's a good dog?" she cooed at him. "Who's such a good boy?"

Expression and ecstatically wriggling body said clearly, "I am! I am!"

Jo could only agree.

"Hey, buddy." Sam's voice caught the dog's attention, and he left Jo quickly, attention now wholly on Sam. Sam put a bowl of food on the floor. "Here you go, D-Dog." Without further discussion as far as Jo knew, Sam had started calling Dean the dog, D-Dog.

"I've, uh, got some bacon grease we could put on it," Jo offered casually. "If you want."

"Sure," Sam said easily. "He loves that."

Jo crossed the kitchen and tipped the bowl of drippings she'd saved over the kibble and it was gobbled down greedily.

"Eggs, baby?" she asked Sam as she headed back to the stove.

"Sure," Sam said again.

Jo smiled to herself, remembering his reaction the first morning he'd wandered hesitantly into the kitchen and found her at the table drinking coffee and reading her Bible.

Over the last few mornings, Jo had made a point of being up and ready for him. He'd told her the second day that he'd gotten in the habit of being up before sun, and hadn't been able to just lie in bed yet after he was awake.

He was so darn skinny. Any opportunity to feed him was something Jo was not willing to give up. And if he ended up with "second breakfast" a couple of hours later with the rest of the family, Jo wasn't going to complain about cooking twice for him. She wondered sometimes what she would have done if she'd ended up with girls. Or picky eaters. Or slow metabolisms. Praise God He'd given her five boys who would eat whatever she put on the table in front of them. With gusto.

This morning Sam settled into a chair and watched the dog eat while he sipped on his coffee. Jo had gone back to beating the eggs when Sam spoke.

"Dean's kinda...," he trailed off. "I can't really figure out what he's thinking sometimes," he ventured, eyes not leaving the dog.

For just a second Jo got stuck on which Dean Sam was talking about, new name for the dog aside. The dog himself lifted his head, looking at Sam adoringly and wagging his tail happily.

Jo couldn't help the smile. _No mystery there._

Sam's statement hadn't been posed as a question. But Jo knew it was. She turned, bowl in hand, stirring more slowly as she thought about her answer.

"Well," she started, wanting to be careful. "He can be hard to get a handle on, especially...," she hesitated to say it, but there it was, "initially."

Sam nodded. "He's so, like,... steady most of the time. But sometimes. He gets..." Sam hesitated, shaking his head. "...something...off. And I think maybe he's mad – no, I _know_ he's mad – but he says he's not. And he's so... emotionless when he says it, I can't really prove that he is, so I just let it drop. But I _know_ he was mad, and I want to find out _why_ , but I can't get him..."

He stopped, expression both confused and frustrated. He huffed out a sigh. "I don't know. I just..."

Jo abandoned the eggs, putting the bowl on the counter before she joined Sam at the table. She was struck by how easily Sam was able to read Dean, even though he still didn't "know" his brother. Though, truthfully, Dean wasn't really much of a puzzle if you were paying attention. And Sam was paying attention. Close attention.

"Sugar, your brother's..." Jo shook her head. "Well, for one, he's not emotionless, no matter..."

"No, I know he's not. I know he's..."

Jo put a hand over his to still him, and he subsided obediently. "Indulge me for just a second, OK, Sam," she asked with a smile and he nodded.

"I know you know he's not emotionless," she said gently. "But it might be helpful for you to know _why_ he may act like he wants you to think that he is, OK?"

Sam nodded again, watching her closely.

"I don't know how much y'all have talked about your childhood," she started, looking at him quizzically. At the slight shake of his head she shook her own, not wanting to be the one to talk to Sam about this, but knowing he needed some background if he was going to understand his brother. And trying not to let her frustration with both of them show. Because it had been close to a week since Sam had returned and why would they have talked about their childhood or what had happened or anything that might... She stopped herself.

_Where was I?_

Jo took a breath. _Right._ "OK. After your mama died, y'all were pretty transient, I think. Moving around while your daddy did odd jobs. Dean took on a lot of... parental, I guess you'd say, responsibility for you. And I think he worked really hard to make things feel... stable for you. So he learned how to mask a lot of his own feelings, his fears, so that you wouldn't be scared."

Sam was chewing on his lip thoughtfully.

"I think that since the two of you have been together as adults, working together, traveling, that he's learned that he doesn't have to do that as much. That you're a grown man and that he can let you see more of who he is." She smiled at him. "Not that he fooled you as much as he thought he did, I think."

She hesitated for just a second. "But right now, I think maybe he sees you as..." She stopped, trying to choose the right word.

"Vulnerable," Sam supplied softly, eyes meeting hers through the slight overhang of his newly trimmed bangs.

"Yes," Jo said, tears starting to her eyes. "He knows you don't feel comfortable or very sure of us or him. And he wants you to feel safe here, sweetheart, protected. So I think he may have reverted a little, not showing you his own emotions because he doesn't want to scare you. Because really, honey? He's feeling so many of the same things you are, and he doesn't know what to do with all of it. But he's terrified that if you see how... how... vulnerable," she used the same word deliberately, " _he_ is, that it will make you feel... unsafe. And that you'll..."

Sam was pale across the table from her.

She peered at him, concerned. "Does that make sense? I mean, it's just my own amateur assessment, so take it for what it's worth, but..."

Sam nodded tightly. "No. It makes sense."

She waited to see if he'd ask anything else, and when he didn't, she patted him on the arm and went back to the eggs.

After a few minutes Sam said, "He doesn't want to talk about what happened."

And Jo stopped stirring the eggs again. This time in the skillet. She started up again, letting them finish cooking before she answered. She glanced over her shoulder at Sam, who he seemed content to let her wrap things up, meeting her eyes solemnly and giving her a hesitant smile when she nodded at him. She split the eggs between them on the plates he'd gotten out of the cabinet.

She sat down and took a bite of eggs, gathering her thoughts. "Has he told you he doesn't want to talk about it?" she asked.

Sam shook his head. "No. But he hasn't brought it up. He hasn't asked or..."

Jo sighed. "Honey, your brother's not going to start this conversation with you," she said gently. "At least. Not any time soon."

Sam's face wrinkled in confusion. "He's not?"

"No, baby, he's not."

Sam thought about that. "Huh."

Jo laughed softly. "Sam, the way you two tend to address emotionally charged issues is that your brother avoids them until you eventually wear him down enough to talk about them." She huffed out a considering snort of air. "This actually may be confusing him as much as it is you. Because as big as he talks about not wanting to share and care about everything, he needs that. And I think he really relies on you to get him to the point where he can talk about what's going on."

And that was interesting. Because now that she thought about it, Jo realized she'd actually witnessed a couple of times when Dean had given Sam openings to ask questions, and Sam, currently not as tuned in to the subtleties of the usual give and take between the two of them, had let the opportunities pass.

_Huh._

Jo knew that left alone long enough, Dean would eventually make himself face the difficult questions about what had happened in that hunt that had lost Sam. But the truth was that Dean rarely found himself in the position of having to make _himself_ talk about things, because usually he had Sam there to force the issue.

And if Sam wasn't prodding him to talk, he was still _there_ , open, trained in a sense, to respond to the clues Dean dropped when he was ready to talk—a muffled grunt, a sideways glance with an exasperated exhalation of breath. Behaviors that almost invariably triggered a Pavlovian "what?" response from Sam, allowing Dean the opening he needed to say something without feeling like he was initiating an uncomfortable conversation.

But right now Sam was oblivious. And they were both floundering.

Sam was moving his eggs around on his plate, worrying at his lower lip with his teeth. "Do you think I should ask?" He looked at Jo uncertainly. "I want... I need to know," he said softly.

"I know you do, sugar," she said. "And truthfully? It might actually be a relief to Dean for you to raise it," she added with a rueful sort of smile.

Sam nodded, a hesitant resolve on his face. "OK."


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's note:
> 
> There's some discussion of Sam's medical situation in this chapter. I have no medical background at all, though I can use Google somewhat effectively. All talk of a doctor-related nature is brought to you by the random websites that came up on my Internet searches. I'm not a doctor. I don't even play one on TV. For the love of all that is good and holy don't rely on anything I say for a diagnosis of your own medical ills.
> 
> Yes, I am a lawyer. Why do you ask?

Dean tilted the beer bottle up, taking a long swig as he watched Tommy fling the tennis ball as far as he could throw it, and D-Dog streak after it. Dean couldn't help the small smile at the dog's new name. It was kind of stupid, he thought, but he got a kick out of calling the mutt Duh-Dog, just to make Sam grit his teeth. He also couldn't help the slightly smug feeling of _one to me_ when he thought about it.

Sammy was sitting on the porch also drinking a beer and watching the same scene. The kid had been even more quiet today than he had been over the last week, and Dean felt the nervous tug in his gut of _something coming_.

"Hey, Dean?"

And here it was.

"Yeah?" There was only one thing this could be, and Dean swallowed back the bile that rose in his throat, knowing what he was about to get asked.

"What happened?" No more explanation was needed. They both knew exactly what Sam was referring to.

Dean forced himself to breathe. To take two steadying breaths before he answered. Sam didn't take his eyes off the dog and the boy while he waited.

"Let's go inside," Dean said.

Sam nodded and rose, following Dean silently through the house to their room.

Jo was in the family room as they went by. She didn't say anything, but Dean could tell by the expression on her face that she knew what this was about. Sam had probably talked to her about it already, Dean thought resignedly.

Each of them sat on his own bed, Sam crossing his legs to sit facing Dean, who leaned against the headboard, face set deliberately away from his brother.

"Dean..." Sam started, but Dean interrupted.

"Give me a second, OK, Sammy? I'll tell you. I just..."

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean saw his brother nod.

Dean exhaled. "We were on a hunt up in Oregon."

Even without looking directly at Sam, Dean knew that his brother's face had creased in confusion. There was so much to this story that Sam didn't know; it was hard to know where to start.

"We... hunt things. Things that are hurting people."

Silence. Then, "Things?"

"Yeah. Bad things. Evil things." He turned to look at Sam. "Supernatural things."

Sam's eyebrows rose into his hair. "Supernatural things," he said carefully. "Like...?"

Dean met Sam's eyes steadily. "Ghosts, spirits,... demons."

Sam's face went still while he processed this, and Dean wondered what was going on behind the hazel eyes that were so lost in thought.

"OK," Sam said finally.

Now Dean's eyebrows rose. "OK?" he said. He really hadn't been sure how Sam would react to this particular truth about their lives.

Sam's eyes focused on his brother again, frowning at Dean. "I don't think you'd lie to me about something like that, Dean," he said seriously.

The corner of Dean's mouth went up, unable to resist the tease. "But maybe I'm crazy," he offered.

Sam didn't smile in response. "I don't think so," he said. "You haven't seemed insane so far." Dean wasn't sure whether to be amused or insulted by the fact that apparently Sam had thought it through. "And none of the Sweeds have seemed concerned about your mental health." Now he did give a faint smile, though it faded almost as soon as it appeared into something sadder. "At least not like that."

Dean blinked at the honesty in that statement and was momentarily left breathless.

There was a beat of uncomfortable silence.

Dean cleared his throat. "Anyway," he went on. "There'd been reports of people getting lost, wandering through a park preserve disoriented and overwhelmed with grief. They'd all been sure that someone they loved had died. But that hadn't been true. Once they'd get back or be found, the person they'd thought was gone was always still alive."

Sam was watching him intently. "Is that what happened? You thought I was dead and left?"

Dean shook his head, swallowing heavily. "No. I don't.." It all felt so unreal now, hard to grab hold of. He had been so sure at the time that Sam was dead. So sure that he'd... "I don't think it was the same," Dean said. "I saw you go over the cliff, Sammy. I heard you..." _scream_. He stopped, trying to regulate breathing that had begun to hitch. _Damn it, don't.._ _He's safe, he's here._

Dean rubbed at his temples, concentrating, trying to dredge up the memories that he'd shoved so far down over the last months. "No one else reported _seeing_ someone die. They all said they just _knew_ , 'remembered' that the person was dead. I saw... I..."

Sam didn't say anything, just watched him. Dean wasn't looking at his brother, but he could feel the weight of Sam's undivided attention on him.

"I looked for you," Dean finally managed to continue. "Found a way down into the gorge. I... followed the river for miles."

The hours after Sam had gone over the edge were only chaotic flashes of desperation and terror. Searching for some passable trail down the cliffs, scrambling down the steep incline, trees and branches tearing at him, tripping him, a frightening head over heels tumble of bruises and scrapes and the world a pinwheel of green and gray and flashes of sparking light as his head had connected with whatever it came in contact with.

He'd hit the bottom dazed and winded, covered in partially-decayed leaves and a film of dirt made slimy with the unending drizzle of the northwest in winter. He barely remembered pausing, just knew that the next thing he'd been aware of was being in the river up to his thighs, braced against the current, slipping on the rocks, pummeled by the rapids, screaming for his brother.

When that had gotten him no answer, Dean had kept on going, in or out of the water depending on the terrain. He'd found Sam's shoe half a mile downstream from where he'd fallen, laces untied, fabric muddied and almost shredded. Dean had yelled himself voiceless, but kept on calling, praying that just the croak of Sam's name might still yield some sort of response.

He'd stopped when it had gotten too dark to see, huddling in the shelter of an overhanging rock, shivering and wet and in shock. He'd started again as soon as he could distinguish murky shapes in the dim light of the predawn hours. He'd searched until it had gotten dark again, by the end of the day no longer aware of much beyond, _Sammysammysammy_. He'd stumbled into a campsite as he'd been looking for a place to collapse for the night, drawn without being aware of it to the firelight and voices.

It had been a group of graduate students on a weekend hike, startled and shocked by the bloody, bedraggled man who staggered into their camp. They'd recovered quickly, though, giving him coffee and soup even as they'd hurriedly packed their stuff to take Dean to the rangers' station.

Dean rubbed a hand over his face, the memories almost overwhelming him. The grief and the numbness and...

"Dean?" Sam's voice was quiet, probing, and Dean jerked back to the present.

"Yeah," he said gruffly. "Sorry."

But Sam was shaking his head. "No, dude. It's... Are you OK? Do you want to...?"

"'s OK," Dean said wearily. "Let me... Just let me finish, OK?"

"Yeah," Sam breathed.

Dean took a second to collect himself, then went on. "So. After I looked, I went to the ranger station and there was a search party that... went out. Looked for you, too. But." He cleared his throat. "The guy there wasn't very... He said that... only one in a hundred people could have survived that fall. That... even if you had... that the water and the rocks..." Dean pulled a hand down his face. "That they hardly ever find a body."

He had to stop again.

"Dean." Sam's whisper broke on the word, and Dean closed his eyes against the emotion in his brother's voice.

Dean shook his head. "But you know what I was thinking? Even as this guy was telling me it was hopeless, I was thinking, 'Screw you, buddy. You don't know my brother. You don't know...'"

Dean was vaguely aware that his whole body had started to tremble. "So when they called off the search, I went back. I went back to where we'd been, and I kept on looking. I kept..." His throat closed up completely.

"Scoot over."

Blinking, Dean turned to Sam, who was now looming over his bed.

"Scoot over," his little brother ordered again quietly. Numbly, Dean obeyed; knees drawing up, he wrapped his arms around them as Sam got settled next to him.

"What happened?" Sam prompted softly, shoulder solid against Dean's. There.

Dean closed his eyes. "I don't... I don't know," he faltered. "I was going to start from the beginning. Start over and work my way downstream. And then. I just... I knew you were gone. That you couldn't have survived..." He almost couldn't speak around the guilt filling his chest, the room airless and stifling. "And I left. I left you..." he said. "I left you."

It was just a whisper, but Dean couldn't seem to make the words stop. "I left you. You were there and you were hurt and I _left_. I should have _known_. I should have known and I left..."

"Dean, stop."

"I left..."

"Dean!" Sam's voice cracked out sharp, and Dean felt his mouth close on a snap. "Don't do that, OK?" Sam said, shaky now, watching Dean with huge, worried eyes. "You didn't mean to, OK? You didn't _know_."

"I _should_ have." Dean couldn't help himself. "I should never have given up..."

"Dean, listen to me, OK? Just listen." Sam's words were almost tripping over themselves in an effort to stop Dean's. "Something had to have happened. To make you leave. Otherwise there's no way you would have left me, Dean. I know that, man." When Dean finally raised his eyes to him, Sam said softly. "I _know_ that."

They stared at each other for a long moment.

"I wouldn't have left you, Sam," Dean said, almost as if he were just realizing it, believing it now that Sam had said it for him. "If I'd known, I wouldn't have left."

"I know," Sam reassured him again. He hesitated slightly before he said, "What happened next?"

Surreptitiously Dean wiped at the tears that had leaked out of his eyes. _Damn it._ "I don't... It's all kind of confused." He shrugged. "I ended up here. And I... just never left."

Sam nodded, eyes thoughtful. "You think whatever it was we were hunting got you?" He turned his head to meet Dean's eyes. His whole side stayed pressed against Dean, not shifting or trying to ease away, even now that the worst was over. And feeling humiliatingly grateful, Dean didn't move away either, letting himself soak in Sam's physical closeness as long as he could.

Dean breathed out a shuddering sigh. "Maybe," he answered slowly. "I was so sure it hadn't. Because I'd seen what had happened to you. But..." his voice drifted off. "Maybe," he allowed.

"Yeah."

* * *

Sam wondered curiously what they did from here. How did one of these "hunts" work? If they thought that whatever they'd been after had gotten Dean, did it make sense to go back? Would it...?

"What about you?" Dean's question brought Sam's attention back to present concerns.

"What?" he asked.

"What happened to you, Sam?" Dean asked, gaze flitting to the scar along the side of Sam's face and back to his eyes.

Breath freezing at the increased scrutiny, Sam got up, turning...

But Dean caught his arm. "Sam..."

Sam did his best not to jerk his elbow out of Dean's grasp, but he still pulled away, wanting to be free. Dean let him go before it became a struggle, but his eyes followed Sam closely, and Sam suspected that if he made for the door, Dean would be off the bed in an instant, blocking that exit.

So Sam sat back on his own bed, leaving his legs hanging off, feet braced against the floor. "Nothing," he said, fingers going to the scar of their own accord. He shrugged and looked at Dean. "I told you."

Dean's eyes seemed to bore into him, but his brother's face remained determinedly neutral. "You told me about the fight," Dean acknowledged. "But not about... about anything else."

Sam concentrated on brushing dog hair and some dirt off the quilt on his bed. "Didn't I?" he asked. It was such a pathetic attempt at stalling Sam was actually embarrassed for himself.

Dean didn't say anything until Sam brought his eyes up again. "So you expect me to spill my guts, but you're not gonna?" Dean asked.

And Sam could hear the careful modulation in his brother's voice. Knew that Dean was holding himself in check.

"It's not that. It's... I haven't..." Sam shook his head and glanced away.

Sam wasn't completely sure what the hesitation was. He knew he didn't want to hurt Dean, and it was going to upset Dean to hear the details. Even if he hadn't just _witnessed_ the extent and depth of Dean's guilt about what had happened, Sam would have suspected it. And it had hurt Sam more than he would have expected to see the pain his own loss had caused Dean.

But it was more than that. It was admitting to someone—anyone—the loneliness and devastation of the last weeks and months. Sam knew it was there. Was self-aware enough to recognize the despair that had threatened after he'd woken up alone, without anyone, not even himself. He'd done everything he could to push those feelings down, had refused to look at them or acknowledge them for fear of having them consume him if he did. Sam wasn't sure how much of that he could expose without threatening the integrity of the walls he'd built up so carefully to protect himself.

To share it with his brother. To admit that weakness...

Dean had stayed quiet while Sam thought. "You can trust me, Sam," he said softly, and Sam's eyes snapped back to brother.

"I know that, Dean. I do," he said. He did. And that was part of what scared him.

The tight expression on Dean's face eased some in relief. Dean nodded. "Then tell me," he said gently.

Sam swallowed heavily. _OK._ He could do that, couldn't he? He cleared his throat, folded his hands in front of him, focused on his fingers.

"I woke up in the hospital," he said without preamble. "I'd been in a coma for almost a month they said. I, uh, had head trauma," he gave Dean a _no, duh, huh?_ kind of look across the span between their beds, and Dean's eyebrow rose slightly in response. "Two dislocated shoulders, a broken collar bone, a broken arm, a broken leg, a few broken ribs." Sam shrugged, going for nonchalant, especially in light of the drawn expression on his brother's face. There didn't seem to be any point in mentioning the extensive internal (and external) bruising that had been pretty well on its way toward healing by the time he'd regained consciousness.

Sam shook his head. "I didn't remember... anything. Who I was. What had happened."

There was a snuffling at the door that brought Sam's head up. He shifted, about to rise, when Dean leaned over from his bed and twisted to reach the door so that he could open it enough for the dog to slip in. D-dog jumped up on Dean's bed, accepting a brief pat from Dean as he crossed the mattress before making the short leap from Dean's bed to Sam's. The dog circled three times and then collapsed into a heap with a grunt, back pressed along Sam's thigh.

Sam took a second to knead his fingers into the spot behind the dog's ears that he loved. "Your kinda slobbery," Sam told the panting animal. D-dog shifted again so he was laid out completely on his side, heaving a heavy sigh; he closed his eyes. Sam smiled. Tommy had worn the poor guy out.

When Sam looked across at Dean, his brother was watching him with a surprisingly soft expression on his face, and Sam felt his throat close up. This was what was going to undo him. After months of isolation, this connection to Dean, even forgotten, was sometimes so overwhelming it stole Sam's breath. To be known and loved; to have been missed and grieved over. It touched Sam in places that had been empty for so long...

Blinking, Sam returned his attention on the dog.

Finally, Dean prompted gently, "What then?"

Sam didn't look up. But he went on roughly. "They did a bunch of tests. Couldn't figure out what exactly was causing the memory loss. Except the bruising to my brain." He huffed out a quiet breath. Shrugged. "They didn't know when or if I'd remember. So I stayed til I'd healed up" _mostly_ "then jetted." He smoothed his hand rhythmically over the dog's head and back, letting the motion and the soft warmth help settle him.

It had been a hard first few weeks; weak and unsteady, he'd done all he could to avoid people, give himself a chance to get stronger, try to come up with a plan. There'd been cash stuffed down in his pocket when they'd pulled him out of the river, though no billfold with any kind of identification. And Sam suspected that when he'd insisted on checking himself out of the hospital early that some of the staff had added to his stash. Because there'd been enough money in the manila envelope of "personal possessions" they'd handed him disapprovingly as he'd left that he'd had enough to hole up in a run-down motel for awhile. He hadn't been too proud at the time to accept the gifts for what they were.

"Where'd you go?"

Sam shrugged. "Wherever. I just went. Traveled until I stopped. Stayed til I was ready to go on."

"How'd you get _here_ , man?"

Now Sam did look up. "I don't know," he admitted. He'd just drifted as he'd drifted. Or so he'd thought. It had by no means been a straight line between where he'd been and where he'd ended up. But still. "It's weird."

"It's something," Dean said softly.

There was a long moment of quiet between them.

"You OK?" Dean asked. "Really healed up?" he expounded, watching his brother narrowly.

Sam hated the stutter of hesitation he couldn't seem to hide. "Yeah," he said, trying anyway.

"What, Sam?" Dean demanded, leaning forward on his bed.

"It's nothing," Sam insisted.

"Tell me," Dean ordered, all previous gentleness and understanding gone.

Sam felt the heat of a blush on his cheeks. _Damn it_. "It's nothing," he tried again, but wilted under his brother's glare. "It's just... Sometimes it hurts when I pee," he muttered.

"It hurts when you pee," Dean said. "Still. After almost four months."

_Well, when you say it like_ _that..._

"Yeah," Sam mumbled.

"You're an idiot, you know that, right?" Dean asked in exasperation as he stood and reached for the door. He jerked it open and turned to scowl at Sam. "Let's go," he barked.

And Sam leapt up to obey.

* * *

After his little confession to Dean, Sam had found himself the subject of a flurry of phone calls and a sudden trip to the doctor's office. He'd been fussed over by Jo and frowned over by Luke and then hustled into an old Suburban and whisked off before he could do more open his mouth to offer a weak protest.

"You'll like Dr. Jones," said Tommy beside him. "He's really nice."

Sam drew in a shaky breath. "Yeah?" he asked the boy absently. He didn't want to go to the doctor. Too many memories of feeling lost and alone and in pain. Sam chewed nervously on a thumb nail.

"Yeah," said Tommy confidently.

"Not everyone thinks a lollipop makes a doctor's visit fun," Jake said repressively. He was sitting on the other side of Tommy. Sam wasn't sure why practically the whole family had decided to make this trip.

Tommy's lower lip thrust out as he glared at his brother. "It's not just the candy," he said, offended. "I'm not a baby." When Jake rolled his eyes at this and refused to respond, Tommy turned back to Sam. "He's really nice, Sammy," he said earnestly. "Jake's just a chicken. He used to _cry_ every time we had to go to the doct- ," he broke off with a yelp. "Stop it!" he yelled, pivoting toward Jake, who had evidently decided _that_ did require a response.

Sam couldn't keep himself from bringing his hands up reflexively to cover his ears. Maybe he should rethink how bad he'd actually thought it was to go through some of this alone.

"Well, shut up," Jake spat. "If Sam doesn't like going to the doctor, you babbling about how..."

"Hey!" Jo's sharp voice from the driver's seat cut off the escalating argument. She met Sam's eyes in the rearview mirror. "Let's just everyone... settle down. Tommy, I think Sam understands what you were saying about Dr. Jones. And Jake, with the exception of telling your brother to shut up, you make a good point about leaving Sam alone. So let's.. do that."

Dean had turned from his spot at shotgun to assess the situation in the back. He didn't add anything to what Jo had said, but as he turned around to face the front again, he dropped his arm over the seat. He put a hand on Sam's knee, leaving it there, stilling the agitated bouncing that Sam's leg had been doing. Sam closed his eyes and forced himself to breathe steadily.

_This is so not a big deal_ , he told himself. _It's really not a big deal_.

When Sam got his breathing under control, Dean moved his hand, laying his arm across the back of the long bench seat. He didn't take his eyes off the road in front of them.

* * *

Sam sat in the uncomfortable plastic chair next to Dean and tried not to fidget.

"He really is a good guy," Dean said, arm draped casually over the back of Sam's chair.

"Great," Sam said shortly, and Dean raised an eyebrow.

"Sam?"

A tall man with short-clipped graying hair was moving across the waiting room toward them. Sam stood when Dean did. He took the man's hand when it was extended toward him, gave it an answering shake.

"It's good to see you, son," the man said sincerely, not moving to initiate any additional contact, but taking the opportunity to clap Dean on the back and squeeze his shoulder. "How you doing, man?" he asked Dean.

"Better," Dean answered with a genuine smile.

"I bet," the doctor said with a grin of his own. "Josie. Boys," he acknowledged the rest of the crowd in the room before he turned back to Sam. "I hear you're having some pain?"

Sam nodded, cleared his throat. "Yes, sir."

"Come on back," the doctor said to Sam. As they started toward the back, the doctor paused and said to Dean. "Dean, you're welcome to join us. If that's OK with Sam."

"That's fine," Sam said hurriedly, reaching out to grab Dean's arm, suddenly afraid that Dean would leave him to go in alone. "'s OK," he reiterated, eyes going to his brother, who just nodded, like that was a given.

The doctor opened the door. "Good. Y'all follow me."

In the examining room, the doctor pointed Sam to the table, and Sam hitched up on it, tips of his toes still brushing the floor.

"Sam, I'm Dr. Jones." He introduced himself easily as he approached, stethoscope in hand. "I'm going to listen to your heart, take your temperature, and then ask you some questions. That OK?"

Jaw tight, Sam nodded and glanced to the side when Dean took a step closer and felt a slight easing of the tension in him. Sam sat still through the examination, letting himself be touched and questioned.

"How long have you been experiencing this pain?"

"When did it start?"

"What kind of pain?"

"How bad?"

"Where?"

"When?"

"How've you been feeling otherwise?"

All the while the doctor was checking his pulse, tapping across his lower back, pressing into his abdomen. At one point he prodded gently at the scar along Sam's face, then laid a palm against Sam's cheek before he put the thermometer into Sam's ear.

It beeped.

"You've got a slight temperature, Sam," the doctor said. "Any idea how long you've been running one?" he asked.

"No, sir," Sam said and Dr. Jones smiled vaguely like that was what he'd expected as he made a note. Dean frowned slightly. As he had been through the entire process, each of Sam's answers to the questions the doctor asked making the creases in Dean's forehead deepen.

The doctor handed Sam a small plastic cup. "Have you been asked to pee in a cup recently, Sam?" he asked wryly.

On a sigh, Sam took it. "No, sir."

"Down the hall and to the left."

Sam slid off the table and followed the doctor's directions to the bathroom. He peed carefully into the cup and brought it just as carefully back. When he opened the door into the examination room, Sam was aware that a conversation between Dr. Jones and Dean had abruptly stilled.

He handed the plastic cup to the doctor.

"You wash your hands, kiddo?" Dean asked with a smirk, moving from where he'd been standing by the doctor back to the table. Sam narrowed his eyes, but somehow still managed to roll them at the same time.

"Why don't you get back on the table?" the doctor said as he was writing something on the label and opening the door into the hall. He called out for a nurse and passed it to her with a couple of quiet instructions.

Reluctantly, Sam complied. He'd hoped the peeing would be the end of the appointment.

"OK, Sam." The doctor brought both Winchesters' attention back to him. "We'll do a urinalysis, but I suspect that you have a kidney infection. Where the pain is, its intensity. The fever. Even just feeling kind of punk. It all points toward a kidney infection." He pulled open a drawer and grabbed a pad. "I'm going to give you a prescription for antibiotics. We'll go ahead and get you started."

Sam took the piece of paper. "Thanks."

The doctor continued to look at Sam consideringly. "How's your head? You having any headaches? Blurred vision? Anything like that?"

Dean turned sharply toward Sam.

"No," Sam answered. He looked at Dean's face, saw the fear and the anger start to bloom there. "No," he repeated forcefully.

"They never gave you any kind of definite prognosis on the amnesia?"

Sam shook his head. "No, sir. Not really. Just that it might go away at some point. Maybe."

"This kind of traumatic amnesia is often transient," the doctor agreed. He'd pulled a pen light out of his pocket and was flicking it in and out of Sam's eyes. "But global amnesia, like you've got is rare. Really rare, despite what you read in fiction or see in the movies."

Sam knew this. He'd been told it more than once while he'd been in the hospital, read it online at a library he'd camped out in for awhile.

"I'd like to run a few more tests – CT scan, an MRI."

Sam felt the throb of _nonononono_ and _getoutgetoutgetout_ thrum through his body like an electrical current. He couldn't take this anymore—being poked and prodded and questioned and _judged_. If he had to get in some freaking _tube_ to be looked at some _more_ he was going to... He made a move to rise, but he was stilled by a hand on his shoulder. Dean's. It took all of his self-control not to shrug off the restraining hold and keep going.

"It doesn't have to be today, Sam," Dr. Jones was saying, apparently realizing that Sam had just reached the end of his tolerance. "I know this feels like a lot. But maybe in the next couple of days."

The doctor's eyes went to Dean and Sam could tell that the "maybe" was only a sop for Sam; there would be no "maybe" about this. Dean nodded and Sam's jaw thrust out mulishly. _I'm not a baby_ , he thought, unconsciously echoing Tommy's pout.

"Until then," the doctor said carefully, with a wary eye on Sam.. "Just. Make sure you let someone know if there's any change in how you're feeling, OK? Tell Dean. Tell Jo. Tell me. Don't take a risk with this like you did with that pain, you hear?"

"I won't," Sam said, grudgingly, nodding tightly, and realized that Dean was nodding right along with him.

"You bet he won't," Dean muttered as he dropped his hand from Sam's shoulder.

Dr. Jones was biting back a smile, and he winked at Sam before he answered Dean. "Good." He reached out his hand. "It's good to have you back, Sam," he said softly as he shook Sam's hand. "You were missed."

Sam swallowed. "Thanks."

"Dean," the doctor said with a head jerk at his brother.

"Doc," Dean acknowledged with a mirroring head movement.

"I'll call you when we've got the results. We can set up the other appointments then."

"Thanks."

* * *

"Did you take your medicine?"

_Oh. My. God._

Sam tried. He really tried not to scream. Only just succeeded.

"Yes," he said through clenched teeth. The doctor's final diagnosis of a kidney infection that had gone untreated had made Dean pissy for some reason.

"OK," Dean said. "Just checking."

They were lying in their respective beds. Sam had a book and a dog with him. Dean seemed to be content just to stare into space. And ask annoying questions.

"Cuz I'd hate for you to _forget_ to do something important like that. Like maybe tell your brother you're in pain and have a fever."

"Dude."

"What?" Dean asked innocently.

"Shut up. I said I was sorry, like, a hundred times already."

"We're not allowed to say 'shut up,' " Dean told him, rolling his head on the pillow toward Sam. "Just so's you know."

Sam kept his eyes on his book. _I'm so ignoring you now, dude._

A couple of minutes passed in silence, and Sam relaxed his vigilance for another round of jibes from Dean enough to start paying attention to his book again.

"Hey, Sammy?"

"What?" _Damn it._ Why could he not just tune his brother out?

"After we hear from the doc about those scans he did today, I think maybe we should head north." Dean paused. "You know. If we don't need to stay for anything."

Sam blinked. He let his open book fall onto his chest. "What?" he asked, now turning toward Dean.

"Get on the road. Swing by Bobby's place, then go up to Oregon. Finish the job there, if we can."

"Yeah?" Sam didn't know Bobby (of course), though he realized he should from the way Dean and the Sweeds talked about him. This wasn't the first time Bobby Singer's name had come up, and Sam knew he was someone important to his brother just from the way Dean's voice changed when he talked about the man.

"Yeah." Dean said.

Sam took a minute to think about it.

Going to Bobby's. Finishing the job.

The first made his stomach tighten uncomfortably. The idea of meeting someone new, someone who knew him, but he didn't know... It filled Sam with an anxiety he hated, but couldn't escape the truth of. It would be starting over again. More awkward introductions and uncomfortable silences. More opportunities to do something stupid that might hurt someone who cared about him, but that he didn't know from Adam.

The second was frightening, too, but in a different way. In a more exciting way. What would it be like to encounter something not of this world? To confront it. And defeat it presumably. Sam was intrigued. Nervous, sure. But definitely intrigued.

Both things meant leaving. Meant leaving this place that had become familiar and home. Meant leaving people who knew him, people he knew.

But it also meant finding out what had really happened. Might mean remembering who he was before he'd arrived here, before he'd stepped off a cliff into darkness and loss.

There wasn't really a choice, though, was there? However comfortable he was here, Sam knew he needed to face what had happened to him. And to his brother.

So Sam nodded his head in agreement. "OK."


	8. Chapter 8

The last group of tests run by Dr. Jones had given Sam a clean bill of health. Retrograde amnesia diagnosis aside.

Dean had wanted to wait until they were sure Sam was healthy before telling Jo and Luke they were leaving, and Sam had been fine with letting Dean make that decision. His brother knew the Sweeds better than Sam did, and if Sam had figured they'd just throw the announcement out at breakfast the morning after they'd made the decision, he trusted Dean to do what he thought would work best with the family.

"We think maybe we'll head up to Bobby's in the next couple of days." Dean had waited until after dinner when Tommy had been sent up to take his bath and Michael and Jake were in the family room watching television to broach the subject with Jo and Luke.

Jo went completely still where she was seated at the table. Luke looked up from the crossword puzzle he was working.

"Is he back from the hunt he was on?" Luke asked with a sideways glance at his wife.

"Not that I know of," Dean said, "but I figure he should be pretty close by the time we get there."

Sam noticed that Dean hadn't said anything about the hunt and had softened the leaving with an indeterminate timeline. Sam's eyes went from person to person at the table trying to figure out what dynamic was at play here—Dean gentle, but firm; Luke concerned, but waiting; Jo…

"Then we'll probably head back to Oregon," Dean went on carefully, his attention fully on the woman across the table from him.

Jo drew in a shaky breath when he said this, but she nodded slowly. "Are you going to wait for Bobby to go with you?" she asked.

"Jo...," Dean started softly.

She bit her lip, recognizing that for the denial it was. "Is Sam ready? Can he...?" She faltered.

"Jo, we're not gonna charge in unprepared. I promise you that," Dean said seriously. His eyes flicked over to Sam, then back to Jo and over to Luke. "I'm not going to risk..."

Jo shook her head at him. "No. Honey, of course you're not. I didn't mean to imply... I just..." She laughed unsteadily. "I can't bear the thought of y'all out there on your own. I want you to have a grown-up with you," she said with a rueful grin.

Dean rolled his eyes. "This is our job, Jo," he said.

"I know," she allowed. But her eyes went to Sam.

"And I'm not going to put Sam in danger."

"I know that, too," she said without hesitation, eyes coming back to meet Dean's. "That doesn't mean I'm not going to worry. About both of you. Like I always do."

"I know," Dean acknowledged. "And we probably will wait for Bobby anyway," he conceded. "I want his perspective on this." His eyes flicked to Sam. "And we gotta count Sam as a rookie at this point," he admitted.

Sam had been willing to let them talk about him as if he wasn't in the room while he tried to get a handle on everyone's reaction, but now he felt a twinge of defensiveness. "I can handle myself," he said. He'd done it for the last four months, hadn't he?

Dean just looked at him. "Maybe," he said.

"What?" Sam demanded. "I can."

"You know how to disperse a spirit?" Dean asked.

Sam blinked. "No."

"What the ritual is to exorcise a demon?"

Now Sam frowned, glaring at his brother.

Dean raised an eyebrow at him, face completely serious. "Sam?"

"No," Sam muttered.

"Do you remember what it's like to fire a gun?"

"No," Sam said again, feeling a flush start to heat his neck.

"What about how to use a knife?"

"OK," Sam ground out, though he met Dean's eyes belligerently before looking away. "I get it."

Dean didn't pursue it further.

Now Jo looked even more worried than she had before. "Dean, I don't know..." she fretted. "I think y'all should just..."

"Josie." Luke's low voice stopped her. He was watching Dean, and Sam shifted his attention from a somewhat sulky contemplation of the fridge to look at his brother as well.

Dean wasn't asking for permission. He never had been.

And recognizing the resolve on his face, Jo let her shoulders slump slightly.

"We have to do this," Dean said.

She wiped a tear off her cheek. "I know."

"I won't lose him again," he told her. Said it so quietly that Sam almost missed it.

* * *

The next morning Dean told the boys they were headed out soon.

"But you're coming back, right?" Tommy demanded. "After you see Mr. Singer. You're coming home."

Dean had to swallow past an unexpected lump in his throat. "Yeah, kiddo. We'll be back." But he didn't feel like he could leave it sounding like they would be staying permanently when he wasn't sure they would. Gingerly he tried, "Tommy..."

"No," Tommy interrupted forcefully, reading Dean's tone unerringly. "You live here now."

Dean looked at Jo. This was not the reaction he'd expected. At all. The surprise on her face told him that Jo hadn't either.

"Tommy," Jo tried.

"No!" Tommy yelled. And ran from the room, leaving stunned silence in his wake.

"Crap," Dean whispered, wide-eyed. "Jo, I didn't..."

She shook her head. "I didn't either." Her eyes went to the door Tommy had just disappeared through. "I keep forgetting that he's not a baby anymore. That he's old enough to understand the implications of you two getting on the road again." She smiled at Dean. "It's just he's also young enough to say what we're all thinking."

Dean started to move toward the door.

"Honey." Jo stopped him. "Give him a little time."

Frowning after Tommy uncertainly, Dean let himself be dissuaded from chasing after the boy.

"Are you going back to where Sam got lost?" The question was from Jake, quietly said, solemn eyes watching Dean.

"Yeah," Dean answered honestly. "We need to figure out what happened. See if we can find a way to maybe get Sammy his memory back."

"Do you think that will help?" Michael now, his eyes going from Dean to Sam and back again.

Dean exchanged a glance with his brother, who grimaced slightly and shrugged his shoulders. "We don't have any idea. But ..."

Michael nodded. "You have to try," he agreed.

"Yeah," said Jake.

* * *

Dean tapped on the door into the boys' room. By general consensus, it seemed to have been decided that Dean would be the one to deal with Tommy.

"Buddy?" Dean pushed the door open. Across the room he could see the curve of Tommy's back along the bottom bunk. It stiffened at the sound of Dean's voice, but the boy didn't turn over.

Dean eased down on the side of the bed, head at an awkward angle to avoid hitting the top bunk. He didn't say anything for a minute, trying to marshal his thoughts.

"What?" Tommy muttered petulantly over his shoulder, though he still didn't look at Dean. Dean raised an eyebrow at the tone, though he didn't respond to it.

Dean bit his lip. "You missed the rest of the conversation downstairs," he offered.

Tommy shrugged. "So?" His face turned into the pillow under his head, rubbing slightly.

_Crying_ , Dean thought. He sighed.

"We're coming back, kiddo," he said.

There was a heavy silence. "But you're not staying."

More silence. "Probably not," Dean admitted gently.

Tommy rolled over on his back. He looked at Dean, eyes bright with shed and unshed tears. "Why not?" he asked.

"Tommy, you know that me and Sam... that our job means we can't stay in one place. We have to... go where the work is, I guess."

"You could get a job here," Tommy started. "You've been working. You could ..."

"Kiddo," Dean interrupted, and Tommy trailed off. He turned to face the wall, setting his back to Dean again. Dean put a hand on the boy's shoulder and was shrugged off.

Dean blinked, surprised by the start of hurt at the boy's rejection. "Tommy..."

"Sammy died." Tommy said it so low that it took Dean just a beat to register the words, and they landed like a blow to Dean's solar plexus.

_Oh._

"I mean. We thought he died," Tommy went on in a whisper. "And before. That... that thing. It hurt Sam. And it hurt Luke and Michael. You... You fight those things. And what if... what if y'all get hurt again. What if...?"

Dean closed his eyes against the shock of remembrance now lodged in his gut.

The "thing" had hurt Tommy, too. Threatened him and almost killed him.

Sam had been about this age when he'd finally been able to articulate these same questions and fears. Tommy was old enough now, too, to make the connections between what Dean and Sam did and the wounds they were inevitably nursing almost every time they showed up here. To understand the danger, to be afraid for them.

"Tommy," he finally managed, still fighting for air and without a response.

"If you stay here, you'll be safe," Tommy said, turning back over, tears spilling out of his eyes and down his cheeks. "Please stay here, Dean. Please."

Dean could only stare in return and wrap his arms around the boy when he sat up abruptly and threw himself at Dean.

"Please."

* * *

Ultimately, Dean had managed to assuage some of Tommy's anxiety by promising to think about it. And having argued his case, Tommy seemed to relax back into his normal self for the most part. If he was quieter than usual over the next couple of days, he still radiated a certain level of childish confidence that he might have changed Dean's mind.

For his part, Dean was snappish and restless, ready to get on the road, but deeply unsettled by Tommy's fears for him and Sam.

Because for the first time that Dean really remembered, "getting going" actually meant "leaving behind."

It wasn't that Dean had never felt the pang of leaving before—he had. In leaving this place, in leaving Bobby's or Jim's. Places and people who had been safe havens and a feeling of belonging. But always in the past there had been Dad and/or Sam—constants in whatever place he found himself. They alone had been _family_ and _home,_ no matter what affection Dean felt for the others who came and went through his nomadic existence.

The last months, he recognized, had changed that. Possibly forever. Because no matter how much he loved Sam, no matter how much his brother's reappearance felt like Dean had been given his _life_ back, when Sam was dead and Dean had been shattered, the Sweeds had been there for him in a way that only his father and his brother had ever been before. Stripped bare, Dean had been unable to hide those parts of himself he'd only risked letting very few people see. And as a family, they hadn't faltered, had stepped in to fill, as best they could, the chasm that had opened inside him with Sam's "death," to keep Dean from being swallowed whole.

And the reality of that—of leaving behind _this_ family and _this_ home, what had become _his_ family and _his_ home—threw Dean off-balance in a way he hadn't been prepared for.

But they weren't leaving _now_ , Dean told himself repeatedly. Now was reconnecting with Bobby, family in his own right. Now was a hunt—a job, a task to be completed. Now did not require saying good-bye.

* * *

Dean left a message with Bobby that they were headed his way, but it still took a couple of long days to get laundry and packing done. And, it turned out, to go toe-to-toe with Sam over where D-Dog was going to spend his time while they were on their road trip.

Because it had no more occurred to Sam that the dog wouldn't just go with them than it had occurred to Dean that the dog _would_ go with them.

And the resultant arguments and stubborn (on _Sam's_ part) digging in of heels over what to do with the damn mutt had escalated quickly into something Dean recognized, but didn't want to acknowledge.

Sam had gone silent and stony-faced after their last screaming fight about whether the dog was getting in the car or not, stalking out of the kitchen with the animal in question skittering after him, tail tucked unhappily between its legs.

It was moments like these that Dean was struck forcibly by Sam's amnesia. Because this was a fight they never would have had if Sam were himself. But instead of making Dean more sympathetic to his brother's position, it just pushed all Dean's impatience and hurt with the whole impossible, ridiculous, hopeless situation over the edge.

Shaking with a rage he didn't fully understand, Dean snatched a coffee mug off the table and cocked his arm back to throw it at the door after his brother.

"Huh-uh," came a voice behind him as the piece of crockery was plucked out of his hand. "Sit down." Luke.

Dean felt himself deflate. "I wasn't really gonna throw it," he muttered.

"Yeah, you were," Luke said.

Dean turned to meet a pair of compassionate, but impatient-looking eyes. He glanced away. "This is stupid."

"Y'think?" Luke asked with a raised eyebrow. "Are you jealous of the dog again?" he went on.

Dean blinked. Then actually huffed out a laugh. "Not this time, I don't think," he said ruefully.

"Well, that's an improvement, at least," Luke admitted dryly. Then his face settled into seriousness. "Dean, you can't react to Sam this way anymore," he said. "You've got to stop being angry at him for something that isn't his fault."

Dean felt his stomach drop. "I'm not mad at him." He jumped to defend himself, though he felt a niggling fear that maybe he was some. "I'm not."

Luke didn't say anything and for a long moment Dean didn't have anything else to add.

"I miss him," he blurted suddenly. The words were out of his mouth before Dean was even aware that he'd thought them, and he was just as suddenly horrified that he might start bawling right there in the middle of the sunny kitchen with Luke looking on.

Dean looked out the window over the sink, seeing the faded blue of the summer sky, knowing that Sam had probably stopped at the corral to watch the horses. Maybe even to wait...

He cleared his throat. "It's like... I go along for awhile thinking everything is fine, thinking 'I can do this. Even if he never remembers, I can do this.' And then something happens and we're having this _stupid_ fight and it's something he should _know_ ,but he doesn't and it's like he's not even _Sam_ and I miss him so bad it's like he's _dead_ again. And I _hate_ it and I can't ..."

He stopped and finally lowered himself into the chair Luke shoved at him.

Luke took a seat next to him, but didn't say anything for awhile. "I know that this has been frustrating for you," he finally acknowledged once Dean had gotten his breathing under control again. "But Dean. Sam ..." He didn't go on. Was quiet for a minute again, seemed to be weighing something in his mind. "Can I ask you a question?"

Dean shrugged.

"Is there really no way to take the dog with you? I mean, beyond nails on the seats and smell and hair and 'what if he pukes or pees or poops'? Because, honestly, kiddo? Those are pretty piss-poor reasons for not letting Sam have his dog."

Dean's heart stuttered slightly at the disapproval in Luke's voice and because that hadn't been anywhere close to what he'd thought Luke was going to say. He leaned forward to put his elbows on his knees frowning uncertainly over at the older man. Luke just watched him steadily.

"OK," Dean said shortly, taking up the gauntlet, but not liking the veer in the conversation back to his argument with Sam about the dog. "How about having to leave the dog in the car or the room on his own for hours at a time? How about not being able find a motel when it's three o'clock in the morning and we've been driving all night because we have to find a place that will take dogs? How about the danger of _losing_ him if he gets out of the car or the room and gets turned around and can't find his way home?"

Dean could feel annoyance and hurt starting to rise, and he saw the answering tightening of the skin around Luke's eyes as they narrowed in Dean's direction. These were the arguments Sam should know, that they both knew by heart after multiple "discussions" about the exact same issue when they were growing up. To have to repeat them when Sam should _know_...

"How about..." Dean went on.

"How about," Luke interrupted him, the snap of _enough of this shit_ clear as a bell in his tone, "you try some of _those_ reasons out on Sam instead of tossing off flippant remarks about your _car_? How about you take into consideration the fact that right now Sam doesn't really _care_ about why the dog shouldn't go with y'all, but does care that you're trying to separate him from the one living thing that kept him company and watched his back and loved him during a time when he felt completely alone in an unknown, terrifying world?"

Dean felt the flinch reverberate all the way to his toes.

"How _about_ ," Luke drawled implacably, "you show Sam you understand that it is _significant_ for him to leave his old Dean behind to go forward with you?"

_God damn it_ , Dean thought dazedly as he stared at Luke, blinking back the unexpected moisture that had sprung to his eyes. _God damn it to hell._

* * *

His own tail now tucked figuratively between his legs, Dean ventured out to find his brother. Sure enough, Sam was sitting on the fence, feeding sugar cubes to the horses.

"Hey," Dean said softly as he approached. Sam's shoulders twitched in response, but he didn't turn around.

D-Dog did, though, moving carefully toward Dean, head down and ears laid low against his skull. His tucked-in tail wagged tightly against his belly.

"Hey, buddy," Dean said even softer, seeing the effect Sam's unhappiness, and maybe even his own, was having on the dog and regretting it.

The soothing greeting had D-Dog speeding up his progress toward Dean, uncurling slightly as he came closer. Dean went down into a crouch and was hit in the chest by the wiggling animal. "I'm sorry, buddy," he said. "Did you think we were mad at you?" He scrubbed around the dog's ears and submitted to the ecstatic kisses he usually tried to avoid. "We weren't mad at you. I wasn't mad at you."

Even with his attention concentrated on the dog, Dean was still aware of the moment that Sam turned away from the horses. Dean let it go without comment, continuing to make much of the dog until D-Dog bounced excitedly back to Sam, and Dean let his eyes be drawn back to his brother with the movement of the dog.

"I'm sorry, Sammy," he said honestly, meeting Sam's eyes gravely.

Sam blinked uncertainly at him. "What?"

And Dean couldn't help the rueful laugh. "Didn't expect that, didja?" he asked. At Sam's slight smile of acknowledgement, Dean went on. "I'm sorry I've been such a dick about D-Dog coming with us," he clarified.

Sam gave Dean a cautious look. "Does that mean he can come?"

Dean bit his lip as he hesitated. He still didn't think it was a good idea for the dog to make the trip with them, but... "I think... I think it would be hard on him to travel with us, Sam. He'll need to stay in the car or the hotel room. And I just... I know he'd be happier with you. But I think he'd be happy here, too, you know? For a little while?"

Sam swallowed heavily, and he glanced down at the dog, stooping to run a hand over his back, to scratch along the narrow muzzle.

"But if you want him to come with us, we can do that, OK?" Dean capitulated completely. "We'll make it work."

Sam lifted his eyes to his brother. "Really?"

Dean nodded. "Yeah."

Sam looked at the dog again. "Can I think about it?"

"Sure."

In the end, Sam decided to leave D-Dog at the Sweeds', and if Dean had to leave the room when Sam said good-bye, no one needed to know that. Ever.

The trip was refreshingly uneventful, especially in light of the emotional roller-coaster ride of the previous few weeks. It was strangely relaxing to be back in the car, the road humming under the Impala's tires, Sam long and lax in the seat beside him. Dean wasn't sure whether or not it was his imagination, but Sam seemed to lose some of his tension, too. With one arm draped along the seat behind them, head swiveling easily from side to side, taking in the scenery as it flew past, Sam's face took on a thoughtful cast that had Dean oddly hopeful as he responded to his brother's careless comments and casual questions.

The first night they stopped, Sam moved surely into their room, tossing his duffel onto the bed he'd always taken and throwing himself down alongside it.

"I'm starved," he announced.

"I saw a diner down the road as we came in."

"Cool." Sam rolled over to rifle awkwardly through his bag, extracting his Dopp kit before staggering to his feet and heading for the bathroom. "I'm gonna brush my teeth."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Dude. They're just gonna get dirty again in about five minutes."

"They're fuzzy," Sam complained through a mouthful of toothpaste and the open door, and Dean felt the spike of recognition at the familiar exchange. "What?" Sam said at the sight of Dean's grin when he came out of the bathroom, wiping a towel over his mouth before tossing it at a chair.

"Nothin'" Dean said, smile still in place as he turned back to the door. "Let's go."

* * *

Dean had called just minutes before, and Bobby found himself on the front porch of his house watching anxiously for the Impala, stomach clenching nervously as he spotted it coming down the drive. He took a couple steps off the porch as the familiar black car rolled to a stop in front of him, and he felt the slam of his heart in his chest as first Dean, then Sam, climbed out of the car. Feeling vaguely like he was walking slow-motion through molasses, Bobby moved to greet them.

He stared at Sam.

"Hey, Uncle Bobby," the boy said shyly.

Bobby's eyebrows went up, and he cut his gaze to Dean, who had started to snicker.

Bobby gave Sam a sympathetic look. "Kid, you haven't called me 'Uncle Bobby' since you were about 12," he told him dryly.

Sam went bright red, turning to scowl, embarrassed, at Dean. "Jerk," he muttered furiously.

"Bitch," Dean riposted with a grin.

Sam's face pursed into an expression that Bobby had seen repeatedly over the years, and Bobby had to clear his throat around the lump that formed watching the exchange. _Dear God in heaven._

"Boy, if you're finished harassing your brother..." Bobby said it with a mock-exasperated shake of his head at Dean before returning his attention to the younger Winchester. "Sam," he said, voice breaking in spite of himself. He held out his hand. "It's good to see you, son," he added gruffly.

Hesitantly, Sam took a step forward. "Hey, Bobby," he said taking the hand that was offered.

Bobby could see the skittishness in the boy's face, in the way he held himself. He was clueless, but trying. Not sure who Bobby was, but aware that the man was someone who cared about him. Bobby managed to control himself enough not to go in for the hug, but he couldn't stop the hand that went up to cup Sam's cheek. Or the tears that escaped down his own.

Sam froze at the contact, but he didn't flinch away. He watched the older man with a certain amount of nervousness, but he met Bobby's eyes steadily, letting Bobby drink his fill.

When he could, Bobby let his hand drop, then used it to wipe the wetness off his face as he took a step back. The uneasy silence from the Winchesters gave him the chance to pull a bandana out of his pocket and blow his nose noisily.

"You two are going to be the death of me, you know that?" he complained, stuffing the handkerchief forcefully back into its place. He glared at both of them. "Well? What are you waiting for? Come on in."


	9. Chapter 9

They were sitting around the desk in Bobby's study while Bobby scowled.

Sam looked uneasily at Dean, who was watching Bobby with an untroubled expression on his face. Sam glanced back at Bobby, who had just focused his frown on Sam alone. Shifting, Sam couldn't help the tensing of his body or the reflexive look at Dean again.

"Bobby. Dude, you're making Sammy nervous," Dean said. He hadn't even glanced Sam's way as far as Sam knew. But now Dean did turn to him, a quick smile settling the pitch of Sam's stomach somewhat. "That's just how he looks when he's thinking, Sammy. It's hard work, so it makes 'im mad," he said with a flashing smirk at Bobby.

Bobby blinked at Dean's gentle rebuke, face smoothing out completely in surprise and dismay. But it wrinkled back into unhappiness just as quick, directed now at Dean.

"Smartass," he growled.

When he looked back at Sam, Bobby's expression had evened out again. "That's at least partially true, Sam. Trying to think with your brother sucking all the smarts out of the room is a real trial."

It was Sam's turn to scowl, and he aimed it unhappily at Bobby, not liking the implied criticism of his brother. Dean was plenty smart, what ...?

But Dean just snorted noisily, tilting his chair back a little farther to take another swig of the beer Bobby had brought out. The grin hadn't left his face, and Sam realized a little belatedly that this was the usual give and take between the two men.

"'Course," Bobby went on. "You're usually sucking what's left of the smarts out of the room right along with him, so..."

Bobby smiled, raising a slightly challenging eyebrow at Sam as he took a pull on his own beer.

Sam's eyes didn't leave Bobby's. "So my inability to remember anything about my life or who I am is actually a good thing in your opinion?" he asked blandly.

Bobby cocked his head to one side, considering. "Maybe a blank slate doesn't create the same level of suckage the deliberate ignorance you two generally exhibit does," he allowed.

And Sam couldn't stop the bark of laughter, rocking back in his chair to balance on two legs like his brother. "Glad to help," he said dryly.

"Well," Bobby said grumpily. "I'm not sure it's 'helping' so much as 'not making things worse.'" He took a second to scratch thoughtfully at a spot under his chin. "You hadn't gotten too far with it, had you?"

"Nope," Dean admitted. "We'd talked to the victims we could find and were checking out the affected area when..." He broke off, jaw tightening.

Bobby gave him a second then prodded. "What were you thinkin'?"

Dean shrugged tightly. "Angry spirit maybe. Sam was going to start researching the area when we got back. We'd just wanted to, you know, get a feel for the location."

"Why an angry spirit?" Sam asked, curious.

Bobby and Dean turned to him in surprise.

Sam shifted uncertainly under their stares. "I don't understand," he said.

Sam saw it register with Dean—Sam's the ignorance, his desire to know. His brother nodded his head before he responded. "Spirits sometimes get stuck in a repeated pattern. Usually it's related to how they died—unfinished business, an injustice. Sometimes it's an event from their lives. Whatever it is, it holds 'em here. And the longer they stay, the angrier they get." He let his chair drop to solid footing on the floor. "They tend to take it out on any living person that comes across their little cycle of rage. Suck them into the repetitions." Dean glanced across at Bobby. "This had the feel of that."

Sam nodded. "How do you fix it?"

"Salt and burn," Dean said.

Sam's brow knit in confusion. "What does that even mean?"

Dean shook his head with a slight smile, and Sam saw it again, Dean's realization that Sam didn't _know_. Bobby's eyes went back and forth between the two men.

"It means you gotta find the body. Salt and burn the bones."

Sam's eyebrows went up. "Seriously?" He thought maybe he should be disturbed by all this. But he was fascinated. "What does that do?"

Bobby's dry voice inserted itself into the conversation. "We don't know why exactly, but it seems to release the spirit from this...dimension, I guess. Usually it's the bones. Sometimes the spirit will be tied to something else. But generally getting rid of the body does the trick."

Sam fixed his attention on Dean. "So whose body do we need to find?" he asked.

Dean gave him a look. "That was what we were going to try to figure out next," he informed him. "Before you fell off a cliff."

* * *

It had taken Bobby awhile to get on board with the whole Internet thing, but once he had, he'd embraced it with all the enthusiasm his old researcher's heart could muster. Most of the answers to the questions he tended to get asked were contained in the stacks of books he'd collected over the years. But access to newspaper archives and the other arcane information that was increasingly available online had made the investment in a high-speed connection worth some of the hassle that went along with any technological advancement.

"So, where do we start?" Sam was seated in front of the computer, his customary spot when online research was required, but he was looking curiously at his brother as Dean pulled up a chair next to him.

Dean seemed to have adjusted fairly easily to the reality of his brother's ignorance of all the skills drilled into him since he was a child, but it still startled Bobby to hear the questions, to see the looks directed at Dean as Sam worked out what was going on.

Dean shrugged and reached for the mouse, clicking to open the browser. "I usually start with a google search, just to see..."

Sam's hand twitched toward the mouse, and Dean relinquished control without seeming to realize he'd done it.

_I can do it, Dean; let me..._

Bobby blinked in remembrance. He could almost hear the younger version of Sam's voice, excited and eager. And watched as Dean sat back, mirroring the motions of himself as a child, letting Sam _do_ , voice patient as he guided his younger brother through a search, encouraging when Sam had ideas, redirecting if Sam got off track.

"Wait. Click there, Sammy. Bobby, you got a pencil and some paper?" Dean swiveled around in his chair, shaking Bobby loose from the shifting images of past and present.

"Huh? Oh. Yeah." Bobby rummaged through the piles of paper on his desk until he found a sheet that didn't already have his own scribbling on it, pulled a pencil out of a mug.

"Thanks." Dean's eyes were already back on the computer screen.

"What?" Sam asked, skimming what his brother was looking at, but not sure what he was seeing.

"See?" Dean looked up from what he'd been writing, jabbing the pencil at the monitor. "Right there. Local legend, ghost girl." He went back to taking notes.

Bobby moved up behind the boys. He squinted at the words. Damn. Where were his specs?

"Well?" he demanded instead of taking the time to look for his glasses. One of the damn kids might as well put his young eyes to use. "What's it say?"

Dean turned to grin up at Bobby. "You need us to move the monitor further back for you, Bobby?"

Bobby smacked him. "Just tell me."

Rubbing at his ear, Dean said, "It's one of those independent papers in the area. Did a special report on 'supernatural phenomena' in the area. Most of it's crap, but they've got enough here on a 'wailing female apparition' that we can...."

"But did she wail?" Sam asked, frowning. "You didn't say anything about anybody hearing anything like that."

"No," Dean admitted, "but sometimes the stories get garbled. This is the right area and crying seems to indicate grief of some kind, which..."

"Lines up with what people are feeling when they wander off," Sam finished thoughtfully. "I get it."

Dean exchanged a look with Bobby. "Right."

Sam nodded his head. "OK, what next?"

"Let's see if there are any historical archives online. Maybe one of the libraries..."

But Sam was already typing, glancing at the notes Dean had taken and scowling the _I will figure this out_ scowl he always wore in the midst of a hunt.

* * *

Five hours later they'd made little to no progress, and Bobby had threatened to unplug the computer if the boys didn't step away from it.

"He'll do it, too, Sammy," Dean said wearily as he scrubbed a hand over his eyes while Sam looked mutinous. "He's an ornery cuss." Dean sighed, pushing back from where he was seated. "Give it a rest. We'll come at it fresh in the morning."

Reluctantly Sam saved his work, having retyped Dean's notes into a Word document and added his own as they'd searched. He shut down the computer and stretched, finally noticing the tightness down his back and along his shoulders. Automatically he reached down, hand searching momentarily for the familiar warmth of the dog, caught his breath a little unsteadily when he remembered that the animal wasn't there. He stood abruptly.

"I'm gonna go for a run," he announced.

"Yeah?" Dean said uncertainly, peering up at him. He glanced at the windows. It stayed light late this far north during the summer, but it was close to dusk. "You want company?"

Sam really didn't. But he realized that running in unfamiliar territory as night was about to fall probably wasn't the wisest thing to do. _Crap_. He needed to get out.

"Yeah. Fine." Not the most enthusiastic of acceptances, but it was the best he could do.

"Your stuff's upstairs," Bobby said turning toward the kitchen.

They changed clothes quickly and set out, Sam setting the pace, deliberately running faster than he thought Dean could keep up with. If he could stay just a few feet ahead of his brother Sam thought maybe he could convince himself that he was on his own. But Dean kept step, silent and steady, offering nothing by way of conversation, just running easily next to him.

Sam hadn't run like this at all while he was on the road by himself. He'd walked so much and there'd just been no opportunity to leave his stuff and get out. At the Sweeds' he'd joined Dean on a couple of easy runs, just a mile or two, sometimes with one or two of the boys and the dog with them, undemanding and, when the kids were with them, pretty goofy.

But he still felt the need to run and knew it was probably because he'd run _before_. Dean had mentioned "training" when they were kids and surely that had included long runs. For endurance if nothing else.

After about three miles Sam started to feel the fire in his legs and his lungs, but he kept going, wanting, needing the physical exertion to burn away the frustration of the past few hours. It had been exciting at first, the hunt for information, the challenge of figuring out a search, of sifting through obscure databases. But as time had passed and they'd hit dead end after dead end, Sam had felt the hopeless anxiety of _we'll never figure this out_ settle over him. His brother had been surprisingly patient and apparently undaunted as they'd worked. But it had still depressed Sam. And then to reach for _Dean_ , to remember that the dog wasn't there...

"This is coming up on five miles."

Sam shook himself and looked at his brother.

Dean indicated a lone tree about a football field's length ahead of them with his chin. "You wanna keep going?" Dean seemed willing to run as far as Sam wanted, breath fairly steady.

Sam realized the wheezing he heard was his own. "Nah," he managed.

Dean didn't say anything else, just nodded and turned to check the long strip of road behind them before he made a u-turn across the blacktop. Sam followed, letting himself slow. Dean did the same thing, easing into a walk just as Sam did.

Sam took the opportunity to stop completely, bending over to catch his breath, while Dean reached his arms up over his head, stretching out. They walked in companionable silence back to Bobby's.

It was full dark by the time they got back to the house, but Dean had never faltered as they'd gone, apparently having developed eyes like a cat over the years. Sam showered first, Dean waving him ahead up the stairs as he followed the smell of something cooking into the kitchen. Sam took his time in the shower as he had since he'd been "back." Or "found." Or whatever. He ducked his head under the water, breathing out, letting (imagining) the water washing away the tension that had lodged between his shoulder blades.

Being back in the car—which seemed weird—and at Bobby's had awakened in Sam a strange combination of familiarity and anticipation that had morphed into an anxiety that was confusing. There was the faintest sheen of déjà vu over almost everything they were doing. It was like having a word on the tip of his tongue that he just couldn't remember, niggling and annoying. And it was making Sam antsy.

When he got downstairs, Dean went up and Sam dropped into a chair at the kitchen table, gulping down the glass of water next to his plate.

Bobby held out a hand for the tumbler and Sam handed it over, taking it back when Bobby returned it, full. Sam drained half of it before setting it on the table. He let out a fairly impressive belch as he did so.

"'scuse me," he said with a faint grin at Bobby.

Bobby slid a couple of grilled ham and cheese sandwiches onto his plate. "Eat," was his only response. Sam did.

"You boys used to run a lot," Bobby said suddenly, and Sam raised his eyes curiously to the older man.

"Yeah?" he said.

Bobby nodded. "Initially cuz your daddy made you. But I think you got to like it. Dean maybe not so much. He always liked the sparring better. But you. You ran."

Sam swallowed the bite of sandwich he'd just taken. He watched Bobby closely for a minute. Finally ventured, "What was he like?"

Bobby didn't pretend to misunderstand. "John was a... hard man. A good one. But hard."

Sam wasn't sure what to do with that. He waited to see if Bobby would go on.

"He loved you boys," Bobby continued. "I never doubted that. But."

_But._

"Your mama's death. It changed him, I'm guessing. Not that I knew him before." Bobby shrugged. And that seemed to be all he was going to say on the subject.

Sam finished his first sandwich and started on his second. He'd only asked Dean a few questions about their parents. He'd found himself strangely reluctant to dig deeper than what Dean had told him. He sensed that there was more there than Dean was telling him, but that it would be hard on Dean to talk about it. So he'd kept his mouth shut. For now Sam still held out hope that he'd remember at some point, that he wouldn't have to ask.

"How'd we get to know you?" he asked.

Bobby smiled at him faintly. "I had some information John needed, but it was going to take some time to put it together. He asked if he could stay while we were at it and learn about my collection. You two were part of the package."

"How old were we?"

Bobby paused to think about it. "Maybe three and seven that first time? Into everything." He shook his head. "But two of the most obedient pups I'd ever seen." He smiled again, ruefully this time. "Your old man ran a pretty tight ship. I'd never seen a kid Dean's age so completely in charge of a kid your age. The first day, your dad said, 'Dean you keep an eye on Sammy and don't get into any trouble.' When he said it, I remember thinking, 'We'll see how long that lasts.' But Dean just said, 'yes, sir,' and proceeded to keep you occupied and fed and pretty damn happy while your daddy spent nine hours straight in that front room there pouring over books and taking notes."

Bobby shook his head again. Like he still couldn't believe it. "I never saw anything like it. And I'd say I never have since 'cept I saw it every time you boys showed up here. Whether it was with your dad around working on something or the times he dropped you off so he could go hunt something on his own."

"We were here a lot?" Sam asked.

Bobby lifted a shoulder.

"Enough to call you 'Uncle Bobby,' I guess," Sam said with wry smile.

Bobby shrugged again.

Sam let it drop, finishing his meal and taking the plate to the sink. He looked at the older man. "Night, Bobby."

"Night, Sam. Welcome home"

* * *

Sam was up before his brother, shuffling into the kitchen not long after Bobby had done the same thing. Betty was there eating her breakfast and when she was done, Sam coaxed the dog to him, scratching in all the right places and murmuring what sounded an awful lot like endearments into the dog's ear as he bent over her.

Bobby watched with a certain amount of surprise. Sam had never paid particular attention to any of the dogs in the past. He put a mug of coffee on the table by Sam's elbow.

"Dean likes his black," Sam said absently when Bobby put a carton of milk down next to him. Though he reached for it himself.

" _Dean likes Lucky Charms."_

_Bobby looked at the three-year-old sitting at the table eying with suspicion the box of raisin bran Bobby had just set in front of him. Bobby grunted._

" _Or cheerios," the kid tried helpfully._

_Bobby stared at Sammy, who blinked wide-eyed at him. Evidently something more by way of response was going to be required. "Oh?" Bobby said, trying for "repressive."_

" _Yeah." A leg swung rhythmically under the table while the boy watched him expectantly._

_Bobby tried grunting again._

_Sammy's attention never wavered._

_Stand-off._

" _I don't have either of those," Bobby caved finally._

" _Dean likes eggs," Sammy offered._

" _We're having cereal," Bobby said, trying out his best imitation John Winchester glare._

_The boy dimpled at him, Bobby's glower quelling the child as effectively as John's. "'K," Sammy said agreeably, pouring raisin bran into his bowl. And all over the surrounding surface of the table. Bobby observed the mess glumly. What the hell had he been thinking agreeing to watch these kids for Winchester?_

" _Dean can burp for a whole minute," Bobby was informed around a mouthful of cereal._

Bobby gave Sam the same stare he'd been using (with varying degrees of success) on the Winchester boys for the last 20 years. "You still like milk in yours, right?" he asked blandly.

Sam blinked at Bobby and ducked his head slightly. "Yeah. Sorry. Thanks."

"Must be strange to be around people who know you better than you know yourself in some ways," was all he said in return.

Sam just nodded.

Dean joined them not much later, drinking his coffee – black – in hunched over silence until he'd had a second cup and eaten a plateful of eggs. Bobby, as always, pretended not to notice Dean slipping bacon to the dog, who sat with her head in the boy's lap while Dean scratched sleepily at the dog's ears.

"You call Jo to let her know you boys got here?"

Dean lifted his head. Frowned. Then grimaced. "Uh. No."

Bobby raised an eyebrow at him and Dean sighed. "Right."

* * *

"Hey, Jo."

"Dean!"

"We're here. Got in yesterday afternoon."

"Good. Thank you so much for letting me know."

"Yeah. Well. Sorry that I forgot to call before this morning." _That Bobby had to remind me._

She laughed. "Honey, it took Michael three days to call one time when he first went to college. 24 hours is nothing. Of course, now I just call myself when I think it's been too long, so.... You're in just under the wire this time."

He breathed out an acknowledgement of her point. "Good to know."

"How are things?"

"Pretty good. We haven't gotten very far, but Bobby's here and we'll do what we can online before we head back."

"OK." She hesitated for a second. "How's Sam? Has he...?" She trailed off, but he knew what she was getting at.

"He's fine, I guess. But he hasn't..."

Sam seemed a little "off" to Dean, truth be told. Off of what he'd been at the Sweeds' anyway. He'd settled in there, Dean thought. Gotten comfortable to an extent – with him, with the Sweeds. And that had been a good thing, something Sam had needed. In the car on the way here, Sam had seemed even more at ease; he'd been relaxed, Dean thought, in the familiarity of the Impala, in the company of just the two of them. Dean had felt the tightness in his own chest loosen while they'd been on the road.

But since they'd gotten to Bobby's, Sam had been quiet – thoughtful and frowning, studying Bobby and his surroundings with an intensity that alternately gave Dean hope and made him want to gnash his teeth in frustration.

He bit his lip, turning to peer through the window into Bobby's study, checking to make sure Sam was still there. He was. Dean could see the scowl on his brother's profile as Sam typed furiously on the computer keyboard.

"I don't know," Dean amended. "He's not... I can't figure out if he's off-kilter because we're someplace new or if he's starting to remember," he admitted to Jo.

"Oh, Dean," Jo breathed, hope just coloring her voice. "Do you think that...?"

But he was shaking his head, "I don't know. He hasn't said anything to me." Which was a source of annoyance in and of itself. "But he's been looking pissed about 95% of the time we've been here. And that usually means he's trying to figure something out." He shrugged. "I don't know," he said again.

"OK," Jo said, a little disappointed. "Well. Keep us posted, OK? We want to hear how y'all are doing."

Dean smiled. Felt a slight tug in his gut. Missing. "I will."

"We miss you already," Jo said.

Dean swallowed, still getting used to having people tell him what they were feeling so easily. "Yeah," he admitted. "I miss y'all, too."

"Is that Dean?" Jake's voice could be heard clearly in the background. "Can I talk to him?"

"Well, honey..."

"'s OK, Jo," Dean said loudly, knowing from experience that he needed to speak up to get her attention over the increasing clamor on the other side of the call. "Me, too!" he heard Tommy carol. "I want to talk to him, too!"

"Really, sweetheart? Because – Jake, stop grabbing! – I know you're – Jacob! – trying to..."

Dean was laughing. "Really. Sam's in full-on geek mode in front of the computer."

"Well, if you're sure, I – Jake, if you don't step back I'm going to give the phone to Tommy and you can just wait to talk to Dean until _after_ everyone else has had a turn." There was a significant pause, and Dean could imagine the expression on Jo's face as she and Jake faced off. "Alright then," Jo said in satisfaction. Evidently the kid had capitulated. No real surprise there. "Dean, honey," she said serenely. "I believe Jake would like to talk to you."

There was a slight sound of a scuffle as the exchange was made.

"Hey, Dean."

"Hey, man," Dean said, unable to keep the grin out of his voice.

"Jeez." It was muttered into the phone, and Dean knew that either Jo had left the room or Jake had taken the phone out of her hearing. "She's _such_ a control freak."

Ever an oldest child, Dean was unable to stop himself from saying, "Like you don't need a little control in your life, brat."

"Whatever," Jake sulked. "Dude." And he was on to the next thing. "Guess what?"

The phone was passed around, and Dean was in the middle of a conversation with Luke when Sam stepped out on to the porch.

"Just a sec', Luke. Hey, Sammy, what's up?"

Sam gave him an odd look. "I thought you were going to help me with the research," he said stiffly.

Dean cast a quick glance at his watch. He'd been on the phone almost 45 minutes. _Damn_.

"Oh. Yeah, Sammy, I..."

"Dean." Luke's voice cut across the answer to his brother. "I'll talk to you later, kiddo. Just call when you get a chance, OK?"

"Yeah, man. Sure," he responded, eyes still on Sam, thankful that Luke seemed to realize he needed to go. "I'll talk to you later."

He snapped the phone shut. "I'm sorry, Sam. I was just going to let Jo know we'd gotten here and lost track..."

Sam shrugged. "'s OK," he said. "I just got stuck and thought you might have an idea."

Dean squinted at his brother. He didn't _seem_ upset. But still He got up and headed into the house. "Tell me what you've got."

* * *

"How do we avoid being affected by this thing again?"

They'd headed to Oregon after slightly more than a week of fruitless searching online. As much as Dean would have liked to have had a little more information under their belts before venturing back to deal with this thing, there just hadn't been anything helpful to find over the Internet.

Frustration with the research aside, though, Dean was pleased they'd had the time to do some crash-course training with Sam in addition to the time they'd spent at the computer. It had been good to see Sam's comfort-level with the weapons increase pretty significantly in just a couple of sessions, years of conditioning seeming to kick in not only with the guns and knives, but the physical sparring as well. The kid was nowhere near where he'd been – or needed to be – but Dean had been encouraged by the progress his brother had made in a relatively short amount of time.

And it had been gratifying for Dean to see Sam regain some of his former confidence in his abilities. Sam had begun to hold himself with a physical assurance Dean recognized, but had not seen in his brother for the last few weeks. No longer as easily startled or tentative in his bearing, Sam's easy grace of movement had started to reassert itself, and it was a surprise to Dean to realize how much he'd missed it.

When they'd finally acknowledged the end of the computer's usefulness, Sam had tracked down the website of the town's local historical society thinking that the paper archives would be a good a place to start when they returned to Oregon. And the Winchesters had climbed into the Impala as Bobby had eased in behind the wheel of refurbished clunker he was currently driving. The older man had steadfastly refused to be left to the tender mercies of the boys' driving, insisting on his own set of wheels.

Dean shook his head at Sam, not sure. "The only way I can think of is to stay within sight of each other the whole time. Whatever emotions she makes us feel, if we can see each other, we'll know they're a lie."

They'd found a series of Depression era newspaper articles about the suicide of a teenage girl who had hanged herself, apparently out of grief over the death of her parents and younger brother. Friends had gone out to check on the family and found the graves of the parents newly dug in the small cemetery close to the cabin. Inside the house, they'd found the body of the son, aged 14, dead from what looked like starvation, and the hanging body of the daughter, aged 17.

The town had buried the children in the family plot with their parents, and the articles had described the tragic circumstances around the deaths with great pathos and a disturbing level of relish.

Further investigation had revealed that when the national park had been created in that area, the property along with its long-abandoned improvements had been a part of the parcel that had been allotted for that purpose. Bobby agreed with the Winchesters' assessment that they needed to find the cabin and its plot to salt and burn what surely was the ghost of the suicide. Unable to rest and consumed with grief over the loss of her family, the girl was sharing those emotions with anyone she came in contact with.

Of course, the point at which they'd figured it all out was the point at which Bobby had received a call from Ellen Harvelle asking for his immediate help on a job that had gotten out of the control of the young hunter who'd taken it on. A follow-up call with the kid had confirmed that he was in so far over his head that not only his own life, but the lives of his "clients" were in danger. Cussing steadily under his breath, Bobby had loaded up his car and with a series of barked orders at Dean and Sam had headed south into California.

"You know if we screw this up Bobby's never going to let us work a job on our own again," Dean had said casually to Sam as they'd watched the older hunter's car disappear around a bend in the road.

And even Sam, who didn't know the man much at all right then, couldn't do anything but agree.

* * *

Sam stood in the clearing, frown furrowing his brow. "Does this look familiar to you?" he asked. "I feel like I've been here before." He was really starting to hate these random moments of déjà vu when he could never hold onto them longer than the brief flash it took to recognize them.

Dean was nodding even as he looked around himself. "Yeah. We were coming along here and you..." His eyes narrowed as his attention was caught by something a few feet away. "You were there..."

Sam had already begun to move in the direction Dean had started to indicate, more careful this time than the first, cautious. "Oh, man," he breathed.

Even months later, the breaks in the undergrowth were visible, one branch on the edge of the sharply sloping precipice still hanging by a narrow strip of bark. Sam took a step forward, meaning just to peer over the side when he felt a hand fist in his jacket and pull him sharply back.

"Dude," he started, about to shrug out of the restraining grip.

But when he turned with a roll of his eyes and a slight frown curving his lips, Sam realized that his brother was tight-lipped and ashen.

"No," Dean said sharply. "Don't."

Shaken somewhat by Dean's reaction, Sam swallowed back the rebuke he'd been about to voice and instead just nodded his understanding. "Yeah. Sorry."

Dean didn't say anything else, but after a tug that manhandled Sam away from the cliff and into the direction they needed to go, he released his hold on his brother, turning toward the edge of the trees.

"That way," Dean said brusquely, taking the lead.

And Sam fell into step behind him.

The best they'd been able to figure, the cabin was about half a mile from the point where Sam had gone over the cliff. From maps of the park as well as a couple of plats they'd found from before the government had taken over the area, Dean felt like he had a pretty good idea of the cabin's location.

Sam had watched with a certain amount of awe as Dean and Bobby had compared topography and coordinates and directions from several different maps to come up with a probable site. For all Bobby's grumbled insults about Dean's intelligence, it had been clear as the two men worked that Bobby valued Dean's input and trusted his judgment. No matter how many time he used the term "idjit" with both boys.

It took them 20 minutes of hard going to reach the reported site of the cabin and 15 minutes more of rooting through the underbrush to find the faint outline of the structure's remains. Dean jerked on what looked like a pile of vines and uncovered a pile of stones that had probably been the chimney. He grinned at Sam.

"Yahtzee," he called out and Sam laughed.

Still across the overgrown clearing, Sam kicked free of the bush he found himself hip deep in, and headed toward his brother. He took a couple of steps and tripped over something. Looking down, he realized it was a shoelace, and he rolled his eyes at himself. _Typical_. He dropped into a crouch, carefully putting down the shotgun Dean had insisted he keep with him.

"Hey, Sammy, I think maybe this way..."

Sam glanced up at his brother and caught Dean's eyes across the tangled expanse. Saw Dean shake his head in amused exasperation when he realized what Sam was doing. Huffing out a breath of agreement, Sam turned his attention back to his shoe, reaching for the leather lace, looping it around and...

_Watch, Dad, watch, I can do it! You make bunny ears and then..._

In the end it was so anti-climactic that Sam almost didn't realize it had happened. One second he was tying his shoe with no memory of how he'd mastered that particular skill and the next everything slipped seamlessly into place. Dean showing him over and over how to do it, slightly larger child's hands over his as they practiced. Dad at the table, working on something, but looking up occasionally to add his encouragement or suggestions.

Sam put a hand on the ground to steady himself, rocked suddenly by the rush of emotions. _Oh my God._ Relief and joy flooded through him. _I remember, I remember, I..._ He raised his head, seeking out his brother. "Dean!"

But his eyes when they came up saw only brush and trees, the slate gray of the sky above him. He was alone.

Dean was gone.

* * *

Dean dropped the vines back into place, checking over his shoulder as he scanned the terrain. He squinted as he moved away from the ruins of the house. There was something that looked like it might be an enclosure. A corral? A garden? Family plot perhaps?

"Hey, Sammy, I think maybe this way..."

He turned to his brother and saw just the tangle of Sam's hair over the brush. Dean frowned and was about to move toward him when the kid's head came up and Dean realized Sam was tying his shoe. _Typical_ , he thought to himself, shaking his head and smiling at the exasperation in his little brother's expression.

Knowing that Sam would be right behind him, Dean started toward the small patch of ground with what looked like might be the remains of a fence of some sort. But this close to the house? Would people bury...?

Dean stepped around a tree, pulling out the machete he'd stuck in his belt and swinging it at a thick mess of undergrowth.

"Dean!"

He jerked around at the shout, startled, but knowing even as he turned that it wasn't panic or fear he heard in Sam's voice. His mouth opened to ask what it was and his eyes skimmed the area for his brother. He saw nothing.

Sam was gone.


	10. Chapter 10

_ Noooooooooo! _

Dean felt the wail build in the pit of stomach as despair slammed into him, sending him to his knees.

_ Sam. SamSamnononononono. _

Dean doubled over, hands hitting the ground in front of him, sharp jabs of rocks and thorns in his palms slicing into his skin and, briefly, through the riptide of grief that was threatening to pull him under.

_ No. _

Dean blinked. _No._ This wasn't right.

_ Gone. He's gone. He's gone. _

Dean clutched at the ground beneath his hands, felt the stab of broken twigs digging into his flesh, felt the flash of clarity the pain brought steady him. He shook his head against the insidious swell of panic and grief in his gut. _No. Think_ , he told himself. _Think_. _You can do this. You can. You've been doing it for months._

And he had. Months of reminding himself to breathe and live around the absence of Sam. He closed his eyes tightly, jaw clenched. _He's not gone. He's not._

Unsteadily, Dean forced himself to his feet. _He's here, he's here._ He swayed for a minute, battered by the certainty of Sam's death. That his brother was gone.

_ Gone. _

"No." Dean said it out loud, voice raw. "You're a lying bitch. He's _not_ gone."

Teeth gritted against the throbbing ache of _gone_ in his heart, Dean staggered forward. Forced himself move, to function in a world without Sam. _._

_ No. _

He came around the tree into sight of the cabin's ruins. _No Sam._

_ No. _

_ Gone. _

Dean caught a sob before it escaped his lips, stumbled two more steps.

"He's not gone. He's not, he's not, he's not," Dean panted.

And then he heard it. A ragged, gasping sound. Saw him. On the ground, collapsed as if his legs had been cut out from under him.

"Sam!" Dean surged forward, the fog of _gone_ suddenlyclearing. He dropped to his knees in front of Sam.

Sam was crying like Dean hadn't heard since they were children, broken sobs, without inhibition. His head hung between his shoulders, hands lax in his lap, palms open. "Dean, Dean, Dean..."

"Sammy?" Dean reached for Sam's face, tilting it up. "Hey," he said. "Hey."

Sam's eyes were bewildered as they met Dean's, wet with tears and confused in a way that made Dean's heart clench. He pressed his palm firmly into his brother's cheek, fingers wrapping around toward the back of Sam's head.

Sam stared at him almost uncomprehendingly. "You were gone," he whispered.

"I wasn't," Dean said roughly. "I'm not. I'm right here. It was the spirit, remember?"

Sam's eyelashes fluttered, brow creasing. "I thought... I remembered. I _remembered_ and then you were gone again, and I... I couldn't...." He broke off, still staring at Dean like he wasn't sure his brother was really there.

"I'm not gone, Sam," Dean reiterated firmly, tightening his grip on Sam's face, bringing up his other hand to connect Sam to him more solidly. "See?" he demanded.

Sam nodded in a vague sort of obedience. "I thought you were gone," he said again.

_ Stubborn _ , Dean thought with a semi-hysterical exasperation. _Still. Always._

So Dean scooted forward, moving his hands off Sam's face and wrapping his arms around his brother.

"I'm right here, Sam," he said, pulling Sam close with a jerk that was almost a shake. He shook him again. "I'm right here."

There was a beat of motionlessness from Sam before, with a tearing gasp, his arms came up and around Dean in return. "Dean," he breathed, embracing Dean with such force it drove the air from Dean's lungs. "Dean."

"Yeah," Dean wheezed, shifting so that he could breathe. "Yeah," he said again, closing his eyes in relief at the recognition in Sam's voice. _Sam remembers. He remembers._

Dean felt the wonder and the joy slam into him so hard it was all he could do get the air in and out of his lungs for a long minute. And in that moment nothing else in the world mattered. There was only Sam. Sam, safe and whole and remembering. Sam, holding onto Dean as hard as Dean was holding onto him. And Dean felt the shift of his world falling back into place, the hole that had been opened somewhere inside him with Sam gone, grinding shut. It wasn't going to be perfectly healed really. There would be a scar over the surface where it had been, tender for a long time and never faded completely. But Dean had been living with scars his entire life. One more wouldn't make a difference.

It wasn't smart, Dean thought finally, this sitting here on the floor of the forest with both their backs exposed and weapons forgotten. "Sam?" Dean said quietly. "Sam, we gotta torch this bitch." He turned his face so that he was speaking directly into Sam's ear. He felt Sam's arms clutch him spasmodically, not willing to let go just yet. "Look. I promise. When this is done we can cry and cuddle all you want, OK? But we gotta finish this job."

Sam's laugh was a snuffling snort against Dean's collar bone, and that one sound—unattractive, and frankly, kind of snotty—communicated to Dean all that he'd been missing in the months Sam had been gone, then back but not remembering, "I know you. I love you. I think you're kind of an idiot."

Unable to stop himself, Dean tightened his own grip on Sam, willing back stinging tears. _Oh, God. I missed you so much._

"Liar," Sam mumbled, face pressing into Dean's shoulder fleetingly before he sat back.

Sam wiped a hand over his face, and he drew in a shaky breath. But his face was set with the determination and knowledge that Dean recognized as _Sam_.

"Let's do this," Sam said.

And it was all Dean could do not to hug him again.

* * *

They climbed awkwardly to their feet, still clutching at each other to steady themselves.

Dean cleared his throat. _OK. Back to business_. "I think I found..."

He turned his head and let go of Sam at the same time. And felt the wall of grief crash over him again, the wail of _gone_ building in his gut and...

"Dean!"

Sam's hand, clamping down hard on his shoulder kept Dean from falling, and he shook himself dazedly, stepping back into Sam.

God _damn_. That was going to make things difficult.

He took a breath and turned to his brother.

"I think she's taken it up a notch," he said.

As if in response, the air around them grew icy, an audible, agonized cry piercing the silence of the forest.

"Great," Sam gritted, releasing his hold on Dean.

Both men gasped when the loss of contact precipitated another surge of despair. They flailed into each other, Dean's hand wrapping securely around Sam's forearm as Sam's hand clasped tightly around his.

" _Damn_ it!" Sam yelled over the shriek of the ghost. "What do we do?"

"Hold on," Dean hollered in response. "We're going to have to figure out how to this without letting go of each other." _Perfect._

Braced against the cacophony of the spirit's shattered voice and the groan of the trees as they began to sway in the wind that had also kicked up, Dean faced Sam. "We gotta figure out a way to get our hands free." _Cuz digging up a grave one-handed was going to be a bitch of a task._ He reached out with his free hand and grabbed hold of the back of Sam's collar.

"Let go," Dean ordered, letting his hand fall loose from its grip on Sam's arm.

Sam frowned, but obeyed, tentatively uncurling his fingers from around Dean's wrist.

They both swayed under the onslaught of emotions, strong, but not debilitating like they had been. Not ideal, but workable with Sam right there beside him. Dean adjusted his hold on Sam's shirt, taking on a bigger fistful of cloth and accidentally brushing his knuckles against the skin at the nape of Sam's neck. He felt the grief subside immediately.

Sam took a sharp breath of air, leaning back slightly into the touch. "Dude," Sam breathed.

"Yeah," Dean agreed. OK. Skin on skin. Which, you know, awkward. But still. Doable.

Dean sighed. He reached down and picked up the duffel of weapons and tools he'd dropped when he'd gotten to Sam. Left without much choice, Sam followed him down, taking the opportunity to grab the shotgun he'd set aside earlier.

Tightening his grip on his little brother, Dean steered him in the direction of the potential grave site.

* * *

It was an odd dance trying to stay in actual physical contact with one another while they assessed the scene. They had always worked easily in tandem, each constantly aware of the _where_ of the other as they worked. But the strangeness of uninterrupted touching threw the standard ebb and flow of their routine out-of-whack.

Their usual practiced movement around a gravesite was awkward as they tried to figure out who stood where and how to switch off digging and standing guard without losing contact. Occasionally they slipped, one moving too quickly out of reach or the other reaching for a shovel or gun on instinct, letting go of a wrist or shirt without thinking.

And that was when the spirit moved in. She was constantly around them, had been since they'd entered the small cemetery, howling with fury as they'd uncovered the small marker of her grave, buffeting them physically as they'd cleared the ground and started to dig. The emotional assault was constant, too, even with the physical contact, a low hum of despair when they were touching, ratcheting up to a soul-tearing grief when they weren't.

The ghost had materialized a couple of times, dispersed the first time by Dean who was keeping watch while Sam dug. It had been a one handed shot from the shotgun, Dean keeping one hand firmly on Sam as he'd fired. That had gained them a couple of minutes of grace, and Dean had unfolded the second camp shovel from the duffle, both men digging as fast as they could until a thrum of emotion signaled her return. They'd switched off then, Dean continuing to dig while Sam grabbed the waistband of Dean's jeans, knuckles grazing the skin at his brother's hip. It was they place they'd concluded made most sense to maintain contact because it allowed the holdee freedom of movement while allowing the holder to stay upright to keep watch.

The second time Sam's shot had gone wide. The lack of anything to do except maintain a hold on his brother while Dean was digging had allowed the insidious feelings of loss to distract Sam, the emotions too fresh, too raw for him to function effectively. Even with a hand on his brother, Sam felt the loss, the absence of Dean as strongly as he had in the months he had been on his own. The loneliness and the almost crippling feelings of being vulnerable, unsafe were too recent, ghostly influence aside and for just a second he'd closed his eyes against the inexorable rising of his grief.

"Sam!" Dean's shout startled Sam – not just the noise, but the unexpected sound of Dean's voice itself, sharp, afraid.

Sam's eyes flew open in time to see the apparition reaching for him, face twisted with fury. He took a sudden step back, letting go of Dean and pulling the trigger at the same time.

The rock-salt round scattered to the ghost's left, and she surged forward as Sam staggered, the kick of the gun combining with the returning slam of _gone_ to knock him back into the side of the hole they'd been digging.

Overwhelmed and already emotionally wrecked, Sam slid the rest of the way down, curled into a ball on his side. _Oh, God, please. Dean._

He was only vaguely aware of frantic movement next to him, the sound of a gun being fired.

"Sam, Sam!" Strong hands gripped his shoulders, forcing him up, shaking him with a strength born of fear and desperation.

"Dean." Sam took as shuddering breath as he reached for his brother, clutching at his biceps, reality returning with the contact. "Dean, I can't," he said. "I can't. I can't get it under control," he gasped, tilting forward until his forehead touched Dean's sternum.

"Yeah," Dean agreed breathlessly, a hand alighting briefly on the back of Sam's head.

Sam could feel the rapid beat of Dean's heart under the spot where his forehead rested, the heaving rise and fall of Dean's chest as his brother tried to catch his breath.

"It was better while you were digging, right?" Dean finally asked.

Sam nodded, grip tightening around Dean's arms. "Yeah." For some reason it had felt more manageable. Maybe the physical exertion and the focus on a particular task.

"OK. We're close, dude. We're really close." Dean pushed Sam away, ducking slightly to catch his eyes. "We can do this."

Sam clenched his teeth together, nodding tightly as he met his brother's gaze.

"Yeah," he agreed.

And again, they pulled themselves upright, Sam taking up the shovel Dean had dropped.

Sam bent to the digging, putting his back into like he'd been taught by his father, teased about by his brother. The less-than-ideal length of the camp shovel was a blessing more than a curse this time around, the ache in said back as he dug serving as grounding for his exhausted mind. He kept his attention determinedly on the familiar, repetitive motions of digging or the pain in his body or the warmth of Dean's hand at his hip, trading the lies of the emotional for the truth of the physical.

Dean fired the shotgun twice more before Sam felt the "thunk" of shovel hitting coffin.

"It's about damn time," Dean grunted in response to the sound, and Sam nodded his agreement even as he started to clear the earth top of the pine box, testing its strength with a series of sharp jabs with the shovel.

The coffin broke apart easily leaving the fragile bones of the girl exposed to the air. With her spirit raging around them, Sam and Dean salted the body and doused it with accelerant as quickly as possible, Sam – as primary digger – took the honor of dropping the match into the grave.

It went up like kindling.

Both boys swayed again when the storm of her fury dissipated.

"Well, hell," Dean said as he sank to the ground, the hand still on his brother tugging Sam down with him.

* * *

The hike back to the car was silent.

They'd filled the grave back in and gathered their stuff together in the same oddly awkward quiet, not looking at each other, just doing the job they'd been trained to do.

When they reached the Impala they tossed their kit into the trunk and slid into their respective places in the front seat.

Dean gripped the wheel tightly, not sure what to do, how to fill the space that seemed suddenly to gape between him and his brother. He felt the tightness in his chest at the unfairness of this emptiness. That after all they'd been through, after all they'd suffered, he'd feel only uncertainty now...

He turned his head to the right, opening his mouth to say something stupid and flippant, just to get rid of the silence, to dispel the ache that had settled in his stomach.

Sam was running his fingertips lightly, almost reverently, over the dashboard in front of him, eyes moving slowly around the interior of the car. He touched the radio like he was seeing it for the first time, smile curving his lips slightly, before his eyes came up to Dean and the grin deepened.

"Hey," he said.

Dean wasn't prepared for the punch of emotion that hit him. He cleared his throat. "Hey," he returned hoarsely.

Sam shifted around, turning to look into the back seat, eyes moving again over the jumble of clothes and papers and the detritus of their lives, wonder shining out. He turned back to Dean.

"I remember," he said, awed.

Dean cleared his throat again. "Yeah," he agreed, not sure how he was able to speak around the lump in his throat at the expression on Sam's face. "Yeah," he repeated, his own smile starting to break through.

"Dude," Sam breathed.

And Dean laughed out loud, reaching for Sam as his brother reached for him.


	11. Chapter 11

All Bobby knew was that the Winchesters had salted and burned the body. "It's done; we'll see you at your place" the only message Dean had left on his voicemail.

Bobby'd finished dealing with the young idiot in California and had been halfway home already when he'd gotten the message. He'd beaten the Winchesters back to the house and hadn't been sure what to expect when he went out to meet the Impala.

"Hey, Uncle Bobby." Sam had climbed out of the car first and stood with his hands jammed in his pockets, watching Bobby approach through his lashes. His voice was colored by the inexplicable low drawl both boys sometimes sported when they were tired or stressed.

Or thought they were being funny.

Bobby narrowed his eyes at the kid. "God damn it, Sam," he growled, closing the gap between the two of them and wrapping Sam in the embrace he'd avoided just days before. "God _damn_ it!"

Sam laughed, delighted, and returned the hug with interest. "Hey, Bobby," he said.

* * *

The Winchesters had called from Bobby's, and Jo had tried her hardest not to begrudge either the boys or Bobby the few days they stayed in South Dakota. But it had been hard.

Bobby himself had called when Dean and Sam had left his place.

"How are they?" Jo had asked.

"They're good," Bobby'd said. "They're really good. Like they've never been apart, really."

Jo had blinked back the tears that started into her eyes. "Oh, Bobby."

"Yeah," he'd said gruffly. He'd cleared his throat. "Well. They're your responsibility now."

Jo had laughed. "Hand-off accepted."

Sam and Dean pulled in a day and a half later, tumbling out of the car and rocking back good-naturedly under the onslaught of welcome-home tackles – from the boys and D-Dog – and hugs (only slightly more restrained) – from Luke and Jo.

This time Jo gave herself the freedom to weep all over Sam when her turn came, and he handled it with aplomb, patting her awkwardly and reassuring her repeatedly that he was OK. When Luke finally detached her, Jo let herself be diverted, blowing her nose and asking if they were hungry. They were, and the whole party moved to the kitchen.

The Winchesters were in rare form, mercilessly teasing and provoking each other and the boys. The boys responded in kind, and Jo had visions of wrecked furniture and broken bones as the affection being expressed got increasingly physical.

But in the midst of the chaos and noise, Jo watched Sam pull Tommy close, accepting (maybe even needing) the younger boy right in his space, long arm around narrow shoulders as Tommy leaned in.

And she watched Dean's eyes stray to his brother, his face softening as Sam whispered something to Tommy, who giggled and turned in to hug Sam. Sam closed his eyes when thin arms tightened around him, laughed at whatever the younger boy said in return.

* * *

"Sam? Honey?"

Jo had thought she was alone in the house and was surprised to find Sam slouched on the couch in the family room. She rolled her eyes at the rear end of the dog slinking off the furniture as she approached.

"I thought you'd gone with Dean and Luke to take the boys to the pool."

Sam shrugged. "Changed my mind," he said shortly.

Jo's eyebrows went up. She'd heard Dean and Sam going back and forth over the outing for several minutes earlier in the afternoon—Dean wanted Sam to go, Sam didn't want to go, Dean wouldn't go either, Sam didn't want Dean to feel like he couldn't go, Dean didn't want to go if Sam didn't want to go, Sam would go if Dean wasn't going to go without him, Dean didn't want to force Sam to go, Sam wanted to go, Dean wanted to go, Sam didn't want to go ...

It had truly been one of the more surreal conversations she'd heard between the brothers – they'd sounded like teenage girls deciding what to do on a Friday night.

But in the end she'd thought they'd settled on Sam going. Apparently not.

If initially it has appeared that things between Sam and Dean were back to normal, it was becoming increasingly apparent that they really weren't.

In the last couple of days Sam had gone from giddy with excitement at remembering and being home to quiet and almost sullen. Something Dean had said in passing made Jo think that Sam was having trouble sleeping, so she hadn't been all that surprised – though still somewhat dismayed – when Sam's temper had gotten progressively shorter as the week had gone on.

Jo sat on the sofa, and Sam continued to concentrate on the television. She reached down to scratch D-Dog's ears when he rested his muzzle on her leg.

"Not up for that much activity?" she asked gently.

He shrugged again. "They don't really need me," he said.

Jo felt her heart tighten a little at the tone of his voice. She opened her mouth, but didn't know exactly what to say.

Sam seemed to shake himself, cutting a quick glance at her.

He smiled, grimacing ruefully. "Sorry. I just." He sat up and gave her a searching kind of look. "I feel like I'm butting in sometimes, and..." He shook his head, rolling his shoulders uneasily. "It's stupid, I know." He sighed, turning back to the TV.

Jo watched him, again trying to find words that might help.

"I can't figure out where I fit in," Sam said softly.

"Sam," she started.

"It's just. I'm really glad that you guys were here for him." The look he gave her was sincere. And heartbroken. "I am. I'm so glad for that. But. I don't... I can't..."

He took a shuddering breath, head going down as he clasped his hand between his knees. "It's just... I was so lost," he whispered. "And I thought I'd never...

"Sugar." Her own heart breaking, Jo reached for him tentatively.

Sam didn't seem to have heard her. "He thought I was dead and he moved on. And he should have. He _should_ have." He was talking more to himself than to her. "But I couldn't. I was so... scared. The whole time. I didn't know anything. And I _needed_... He had you and I had..." She could hear _no one_ even though he didn't say the words. He'd needed Dean, and he'd had no one. "He had _you_ and he doesn't need me. And I don't ..."

Sam broke off, and he pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes. "I'm sorry," he said. "This is so stupid." Guilt bled through the whispered words.

The hand that she had rested on his arm came around him as tears started to spill over.

Jo pulled him into the tightest embrace she could manage and let him cry, only able to reassure him over and over that it was alright, murmured words she knew meant nothing to him at the moment, trusting that the tone itself would soothe some of what he was feeling.

It was a long time before he settled, exhaustion eventually catching up to him, leaving him limp in her arms.

"Sam?" she asked softly.

He sniffed and sat back sluggishly, a hand coming up to wipe at his face. She reached over and grabbed a box of Kleenex on the end table, pulling out a wad of tissue to give him.

"I'm sorry," he said again, applying her offering haphazardly to his eyes and nose.

"Don't apologize, sweetheart."

"I hate feeling this way," he whispered. "Like I'm _jealous_. Like I wish Dean hadn't had you. Because I don't wish that. I _don't_ ," he said fiercely. Like she'd questioned him.

"I know that, Sam," she said gently.

He looked at her uncertainly. The blotchy flush of tears being suffused by a blush of what she thought might be shame.

Jo took his hand in both of hers. "Baby, I can't imagine what you've been through over the last few months. To be hurt and alone and not remembering. That isolation and that fear must have been overwhelming." She caught the shine of fresh tears in his eyes before he wiped them on his shoulder. "And then to get dropped back into lives that ... maybe seem to have gone on without you. It must feel tremendously unfair."

Sam was blinking erratically, jaw clenched. "I don't want to feel this way," he said, gulping in an uneven breath. "I want to be _happy_ for Dean. That he didn't have to go through... that he _had_ you." He said it almost desperately.

"I know you do, sweetheart. I know you do. And I think you _do_ feel that way. It's just. I guess it feels pretty in your face that he _did_ have us when you see him with the boys," she said gently. To see the relationships that had developed and deepened without him. To watch the easiness among them and not be a part of it.

Sam looked away.

Jo thought for a minute. "The thing is, Sam. Dean may have had us. But he didn't have _you._ " She couldn't control the break in her voice at the memory of Dean's grief. "We were so afraid we were going to lose him, too. That losing you..." She couldn't go on. Finally she said unsteadily, "Don't think he doesn't need you, Sam. He does. He did." She hesitated slightly before she continued. "I guess it might look like, on this end of things, that Dean had been able to move on. But Sam, he hadn't. And I don't think he ever would have. He was learning to... get by. But I'm not sure he would ever have gone on."

Sam wiped an unsteady hand down his face. "What does it say about me that that makes me feel better?" he asked with an aching glance.

She smiled, reaching out to smooth the hair out of his eyes. "That you love your brother. That you've got the same mixed-up, messed up feelings and motivations as the rest of us."

He didn't answer immediately. "Yeah. I guess," he said heavily. At some point the dog had insinuated himself onto the couch between them, and Sam put his arm around the animal.

Jo didn't say anything for a long time, just continued to ease her fingers through his hair. Then she tilted her head. Sam had started to list to one side.

"Baby, go to bed," she commanded gently.

He blinked at her in time with the motion of her caress. Took a deep breath. "I am kind of tired," he mumbled, untangling himself clumsily from the dog.

"Yeah," Jo said trying not to smile.

"'K," he said. "I'm gonna go lie down."

"Good idea," she acknowledged.

* * *

Sam slept until almost 1 the following afternoon. He stumbled to the kitchen and drank a couple of glasses of water before downing three bowls of cereal. Dean watched him closely.

"Dude, you OK?"

Sam blinked at him through puffy eyes, not raising his head from his food. "Yeah," he said sleepily, head propped on a hand as he spooned Cheerios into his mouth.

"You want some more?" Dean asked when Sam had finished his second bowl.

"'K," Sam said, pushing the empty bowl across the table to his brother.

Smiling slightly, Dean got up and refilled it, putting sugar and milk on top before replacing the bowl in front of Sam.

"Thanks," Sam mumbled, starting in again.

After he finished, Sam took the bowl to the sink and shuffled out to the family room. He dropped onto the couch and watched four hours of a _Dog Whisperer_ marathon. Then he went back to bed.

Dean looked at Jo. "Seriously?"

"Let him sleep, Dean. He's catching up."

Dean shrugged. "I guess." His eyes drifted in the direction his brother had gone. "Has he been crying?" he asked.

Jo stared at him, startled.

"He's got that look," Dean said, lifting a shoulder.

Jo bobbed her head back and forth in a way that indicated _yes, but I probably shouldn't tell you that._ "I think being back has been kind of hard for him," she hedged.

Dean frowned. "What does that mean?"

"I don't know, honey," she huffed, clearly torn. "I just think maybe we shouldn't underestimate how alone and vulnerable he felt while he couldn't remember. How some of that may still be lingering."

"What?" Dean demanded. "Why? We're here. We're all ..."

"Dean," she interrupted gently. "I don't think we _all_ is really the issue." She gave him what she hoped was a significant look.

He squinted at her and his expression shifted as he realized what she was saying.

"Oh," he said.

"I think maybe Sam needs some just you time," she said softly.

He looked away, nodding thoughtfully. He smiled when he finally met her gaze again. "Tired of me?" he teased.

"Never," she said simply. Smiled in return, but Dean saw the hint of sadness behind it.

Even so, Dean felt his smile deepen at her answer, ducking his head and flushing slightly in response.

* * *

"Hey, bud."

Tommy was on the porch swing, pumping his legs occasionally to keep the chair in motion. "Hey," he said.

Dean sat down next to him. He laid his arm across the back of the swing and pushed off with his feet.

"So'd your mom tell you me and Sammy are heading out pretty soon?" he asked carefully.

"Yeah," Tommy said. He sounded astonishingly unconcerned given how he'd reacted to the same information not all that long ago.

"That OK?" Dean couldn't help himself from asking.

Tommy shrugged easily. He was stretching his right foot out as far in front of him as he could, trying to touch the porch rail with his sneaker now that Dean had taken over locomotion of the swing. He slid down slightly in his seat. "Mom said you and Sammy needed some time to hang out just brothers." The swing reached the end of its forward arc and the toe of Tommy's shoe brushed the wooden slats in front of them.

Dean nodded. "Yeah," he agreed.

"That's cool," Tommy said.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." The boy scooted back on the swing again, drawing both legs up and resting his chin on his knees. "I bet Sammy really missed you when he was gone." Enormous blue eyes blinked over at him. "Like you missed him. When we thought..." He stopped.

Dean's throat felt tight, and he cleared it softly. "Yeah."

Tommy nodded and turned to look out across the yard. "I miss Michael when he's gone," he said. "And I really like it when he comes home and takes me to a movie just us."

Dean smoothed a hand over Tommy's head. "Michael likes that, too," he told him.

"And you'll be back," Tommy said confidently.

Dean relaxed, hand moving from Tommy's soft hair to grab loosely at the chain that ran from the chair to the ceiling of the porch roof. He, too, shifted his gaze to the expanse of lawn in front of the house.

"Yeah," Dean agreed, toes pushing off slightly to keep them in motion. "We'll be back."

* * *

Sam had been surprised by, but not unhappy with, Dean's suggestion that they hit the road. As much as he might hate admitting it, Sam wanted _needed_ his brother to himself for awhile. He'd felt steadier after his conversation with Jo, but the flares of bitterness and insecurity still caught him unprepared. He hoped that some time with just the two of them might put some of that to rest.

But leaving had been hard in ways Sam had not anticipated.

They'd left D-Dog with the Sweeds, a decision Sam hadn't fought. The dog was happy there, and he knew that having the animal with them on the road would be unfair to D-Dog for all the reasons Dean had laid out before. And the truth was that with his memory back, the thought of leaving the dog with the family hadn't awakened the same gut-clenching panic and rebellion it had the first time. He had his brother and while Sam knew that he'd miss the dog, he hadn't thought, in his relief at remembering again—at having _Dean_ —that he'd need the dog like he had before.

When they'd been young Sam had loved the _idea_ of a dog and all that it represented – permanence, normality. But he'd never really considered himself a dog person. He'd never been one who sought out dogs or coaxed strange mutts to him. That had always been Dean. Dean who sweet-talked any dog that was tied up outside a café or a bar or a store. Dean who held out his hand to be sniffed. And though Sam knew Dean would have loved to have had a dog when they were growing up, he'd accepted John's restrictions on pets – as he did most things – without much complaint.

So Sam hadn't thought he'd _miss_ the dog the way he did. Miss the warmth of the animal curled up next to him, miss the way D-Dog watched him, poised to respond immediately to whatever Sam did, tail wagging, pleasure all over his face. There was an _ache_ to the dog's absence that left Sam feeling hollow and off-kilter, even with his brother's constant presence.

For his part, Dean seemed to be feeling the loss of the Sweeds in much the same way Sam missed the dog. Sam knew his brother was talking to the family regularly, trying to be sensitive to Sam. But his slipping out of the room when the phone rang or hanging up abruptly when Sam got out of the bathroom or back into the car was beginning to wear on Sam's nerves.

For the moment they were both ignoring the awkwardness. But Sam could feel the tension in the pit of stomach, see it in the set of Dean's shoulders. And he wasn't sure how much longer they'd be able to pretend it wasn't there.

"You OK?" Dean asked it as they were loading the last of their equipment into the trunk of the Impala. Their first job since they'd gotten back on the road had been surprisingly straight-forward and refreshingly easy to deal with. Sure, Sam had been tossed across the room and into a table by the shifter, but that was par for the course, and Dean had dispatched it handily enough, silver bullet to the heart in a single shot. A quick burn of the body and they were going to be back at the motel much earlier than either had thought possible.

"Yeah." Sam shrugged a little stiffly. He could feel the pull of bruises across his back and the trickle of what he thought was probably blood along his side. But it could wait until later.

By the time they got back to the motel, Sam wasn't sure he'd be able to make it out of the car. But with a little concentration and a muffled grunt, he managed to heave himself up. He hobbled after Dean to their room.

"You sure you're OK?" Dean frowned at him when Sam leaned wearily against the doorjamb while Dean worked the lock. Sam looked at Dean in surprise, pressing his hand against the spot at his waist where the tickle of moisture was bothering him. It stung like a son of a bitch.

"Yeah," Sam said again. "I caught the corner of that table and, I think..."

Dean pulled Sam's hand away from his side. "You're bleeding," Dean said.

Sam glanced down. "Yeah," he said easily, pulling up the t-shirt with a wince.

"Damn, Sam," Dean said with something of a bite.

Sam squinted down at the scrape along his ribs, twisted awkwardly to see if he could check out where the wound ended on his back. He couldn't. On a shrug, he let the shirt drop and followed Dean into the room, heading for the bathroom.

"Where are you going?" Dean asked. He was scowling, first-aid kit in held in a tight grip.

Sam blinked at him, hand that had reached for the kit dropping slightly. "To get cleaned up?" he asked uncertainly. He wasn't sure why Dean would be mad at him.

Dean's expression cleared somewhat, and he watched Sam with an unreadable look in his eyes.

"I've got it," Dean said.

_Oh. Right._

Sam sat down on the bed and let Dean help him ease the shirt over his head.

Dean was quick and gentle as he cleaned out the scrape and applied a couple of butterfly bandages to the worst parts of it. Sam felt a tightness he hadn't really known was there ease another couple of notches as Dean worked.

"You hit your head, too?" Dean's fingers were already in his hair.

Sam's neck bowed slightly under the questioning touch. His hand came up of its own accord, though he didn't actually make contact. "Maybe?" Now that Dean mentioned it, he felt the throb of pain at the spot just behind his ear where Dean was prodding.

"It's stopped bleeding, but you've got a knot." Another light probing made Sam wince. Then the whisper of fingers smoothing over his hair. "I'll get you some ice."

"Thanks." With a sigh, Sam lay down on the bed. When he felt the towel full of ice settle on his head, he reached up to hold it in place. "Thanks," he said again.

"I doubt you have a concussion," Dean said by way of response, holding out some ibuprofen. "Get some sleep." It took Sam a while to work out the logistics of what to do with the ice pack as he sat up and took the proffered pills. Dean stood patiently for all of five seconds before taking the ice from him so Sam could accept the medication and bottle of water Dean was shoving at him.

Dean put the ice pack on the bedside table and sat down on the opposite bed to pull off his boots. He didn't seem to be moving too stiffly to Sam.

"How 'bout you?" Sam asked, gingerly tossing back the pills and taking a swallow of water. "You OK?"

Dean didn't look up from his laces. "Yeah," he said without hesitation. "Not a scratch."

Sam nodded as he put the bottle on the table, picking up the towel and its ice before he lay down again. Conveniently the knot on his head was on the same side of his body as the scrape and bruise. He rolled gingerly onto his injury-free side, thankful for small favors. He glanced down at his feet and realized he still had his shoes on. _Crap._ Maybe he'd just rest a minute before he took them off. He closed his eyes.

Sam felt a hand under his ankle and the tug of his shoe being removed. He smiled. To himself, he thought. "I forgot," he said groggily.

A pause.

"Forgot what?" Quiet question.

"This," Sam said sleepily. "Having someone."

A longer pause. The other shoe removed and a hand—heavy, _there_ —on his shoulder.

"Go to sleep, Sammy."

* * *

They took a couple of days for Sam to heal up. Generally they didn't do that. No stitches and a bump on the head? Barely registered on the Winchester scale of woundedness. But at the moment Dean didn't want to push.

They were figuring each other out again. Unsure of things like they hadn't been since after Jess had been killed. When four years apart had seemed like both an eternity and the blink of an eye as they'd learned how to live in each other's pockets again.

Dean couldn't figure out if this was better or worse.

It had only been four months this time. But it had been different kind of time apart than the last one. Time that had worked both of them over in significant ways.

And Dean was beginning to realize that he was just seeing the tip of the iceberg in terms of the effect that time apart had had on his brother.

So far, though, Dean was having a hard time putting his finger on what it was exactly that had changed. But there was one thing Dean knew. His little brother was different.

Initially it had been easy. Like Sam getting his memory back had somehow just reset the last few months. They'd both been giddy with the relief of it all—teasing each other and just...happy...in each other's company. And Dean had been so caught up in _Sam remembers_ that he'd missed the shift when it first came. When Sam had gone quiet. And angry.

Dean actually thought maybe Sam himself had missed the shift. At least at first. But it had become clear to both of them in Sam's clenched jaw and sharp, frustrated comments. If Dean had blinked the first time Sam had snapped at him over nothing, in retrospect, Dean realized Sam had surprised himself as well. Sam had apologized almost as soon as the words were out of his mouth, but he'd retreated into a silence that had lasted for days and soon frustrated and angered Dean.

So when Jo had suggested that the two of them spend some time on their own, Dean had kicked himself for not thinking of it sooner. Even before he'd remembered, Sam had responded to the time they'd spent on the road as they'd headed to Bobby's. Unwinding in the Impala, comfortable with just Dean beside him.

Dean had felt the difference as soon as they were on the road this time as well. A relaxation not just in Sam, but in himself as well. That had lasted a couple of days. Until Dean had started missing the Sweeds. And Jake had called.

Part of Dean had recognized that one of the issues between him and Sam had to do with his relationship with the family that had taken him in while Sam was wandering around the country lost and on his own. The guilt Dean felt when he thought about that seemed to rival Sam's own festering resentment. Dean didn't know, though, that he'd realized the extent of their problem until Sam's eyes had gone flat when he'd answered Dean's phone.

"It's Jake," Sam had said, handing Dean the phone without looking at his brother. The stab of pleasure Dean had felt at the words had faded quickly at the expression on his brother's face.

"Hey, Jakey." Dean's eyes hadn't left his brother. Sam hadn't acknowledged Dean's jab at the younger boy. Had just continued to stare at the television.

"Dude," Jake had said disapprovingly.

Sam's frown had deepened when he'd looked up to find Dean watching him.

"What's up, Jake?" Dean had said abruptly. Shorter than he'd intended.

There'd been a moment of surprised silence from Jake. "Uh. Nothing. Just wanted to say 'hi,' I guess," he'd faltered. "Are you busy? I can..."

Dean had swallowed a sigh. He hadn't meant to take things out on the kid. "No. Sorry. Not busy. But. Can I call you back?" He'd tried to put a false kind of cheer in his voice.

"Yeah, sure." Jake hadn't been fooled. "But you don't have to. It wasn't anything..."

"I'm going to take a walk." Sam had gotten up and shrugged into his hoodie.

"Sam."

"Dude." Sam had given an embarrassed sort-of smile and a one-shouldered shrug. _Sorry_. "Talk to Jake. I'll be back. Tell him I said, 'hi.'" And he'd slipped out the door.

Left Dean standing there in the empty room, staring after him.

"Dean?" Jake hadn't been sure he was still there.

"Yeah," Dean had answered, resisting the urge to go after his brother or even just peer through the curtains to see which way Sam had gone. "What's up, man? I can talk."

Sam had come back almost an hour later, just after Dean had gotten off the phone.

"Jake says 'hi,'" Dean had said.

Gotten a nod of acknowledgement from Sam.

Neither of them had mentioned it again.

But after that Dean had tried to ease back on contact with the Sweeds. He couldn't – he _wouldn't_ – not return phone calls or check in. But he hadn't called as often as he'd thought about it, had taken calls outside or into another room when that had been an option. Sam had never asked. Had never expressed an interest in how the Sweeds were doing or what Dean had talked to them about.

And the not-asking was frankly a big part of what was different about his brother. Sam was introverted and self-contained in ways that Dean absolutely didn't recognize as his little brother. Sam, who had always had questions and comments and _opinions_ about everything he saw or experienced, seemed, in Dean's mind, to have just switched off. He went hours in the car or the motel rooms without saying a word—reading or watching TV or just freaking _sitting_. It disturbed Dean in ways he couldn't even articulate. More and more it felt like being with a stranger; like he was losing – _had lost_ – his brother all over again.

And Dean hadn't been able to figure out how to get him back.

Sam's comment the night he'd been hurt – that he'd forgotten what it was like to have someone – had startled Dean. And been a revelation of sorts.

Sam had remembered the facts of his life before. But there were other aspects of that life that remained obscured – or overlaid – by his experiences in the intervening months. The detachment, the self-protection. Sam was still using those strategies that had made him feel strong when he was alone. And he was only just remembering that he _could_ count on someone else. That Dean was there to watch his back, to support him.

They were almost through the six-pack Dean had bought that afternoon when Dean launched his first salvo in his plan to _remind_ Sam.

"Hey, man. Can I ask you a question?"

Sam turned his attention from the television and their 63rd viewing of _Spaceballs_ to look at his brother. Dean saw the flash of wariness cross his brother's face, but Sam didn't say _no_ so Dean took it as a _yes._

"Do you remember what happened between the time you fell and the time you woke up in the hospital?" Dean asked it cautiously, not sure how Sam would react to the question.

Sam had been decidedly unwilling to talk about what had happened to him before he'd remembered. And he certainly hadn't volunteered anything since he'd gotten his memory back. But Dean was hoping that a direct question might prompt Sam to start talking again. Even if later on Dean was pretty sure he was going to regret it.

Sam blinked heavily at him. Being on his own certainly hadn't increased his tolerance for alcohol. "No," he said. "Not really. I kind of remember falling, but after that... nothing really until waking up."

Sam had turned his attention back to the movie before he'd even answered and he didn't look at Dean now. He took another pull on his beer.

Dean didn't ask anything for a minute.

"What was it like? When you woke up in the hospital."

"I told you," Sam answered tightly.

Dean let that sit for a second. "Not really," he said softly. But he didn't push. Not for the moment. And he recognized the exact moment Sam decided to tell him.

Sam shrugged, gaze sliding to Dean then away. "I don't know. It..." He cleared his throat. "It sucked. Out loud," he added with a slight smile and a shift of his eyes to Dean.

"Yeah," Dean agreed quietly. "I bet." He let the silence stretch out again.

"I can't describe it," Sam went on. "What it's like not to remember anything. Even who you are. I knew... It was like I knew that I wanted someone there, that someone was supposed to be there, you know? But I didn't know who or why. And it just. Hurt. All the time. This hole of not knowing who I was and... missing. But not knowing what... or who. Just knowing that someone... " Sam broke off, swallowing hard and shaking his head.

The raw pain in Sam's voice tore at Dean. But this was what he'd wanted, what he'd asked for.

Sam went on, floodgates open. "And in a weird way remembering's made it worse. Not that I don't want to remember. Not that. But it's like. Now that I remember, I know what was missing. What it would have been like if you'd been there. If I hadn't been alone."

"Sammy." Dean's whisper was more of a croak, the guilt that had been banked like live embers since Sam had shown back up flaring into a raging fire.

Sam's jaw tightened and he pinched the bridge of his nose with the fingers of one hand. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "It's not your fault, Dean, it's not. Don't... . Please don't ..."

Dean slid off his bed and onto his brother's. Sam shifted in response to Dean's light shove, his other hand coming up as he dug the tips of his fingers into both eyes, struggling to stay in control. Dean felt the weight of Sam's shoulder lean into his.

"I'm sorry I wasn't there, Sammy," Dean said softly. When Sam started to shake his head again, Dean overrode whatever his brother was going to say, "I know it wasn't my fault," _even though it was, whatever Sam wants to tell himself_ , "but I'm still sorry, OK? Sorry you had to go through that on your own."

Sam didn't say anything, but he nodded. Finally Sam dropped his hand from his face, letting out a shaky breath. He scrubbed both hands over his cheeks. Dean continued to watch TV.

"Why do we watch this movie every time it's on?" Sam asked scratchily. "It's so stupid."

Dean didn't look at his brother. "Because it's a classic."

"Classically _stupid_ ," Sam returned, settling against Dean. He drained the dregs of his beer and reached for the last one.

" _You're_ stupid," Dean muttered. Smiled at Sam's muffled snort. And polished off his own beer.

* * *

Dean gave it another couple of days before he asked his next question, and another day before he asked again. It got easier for Sam each time, and it wasn't long before Sam was opening up more freely and seemed closer to himself than he'd been in awhile.

"Was that Jake?"

Sam asked the question as Dean got himself settled in the passenger seat of the Impala. They'd been stopped for gas and a change of drivers when Dean's phone had rung. He'd wandered over to the edge of the parking lot to talk while Sam had filled the car and gotten coffee.

Dean raised an eyebrow at his brother and the question. But Sam was adjusting the mirror and the seat, apparently oblivious to Dean's scrutiny.

"Yeah," Dean said, wondering where Sam was headed with this.

"Everything OK?" Sam reached for the coffee cup Dean had been holding for him.

Dean handed it over. "Yeah. He's just..." This was the first question Sam had asked about the phone calls and Dean wanted to be careful. "He's trying out for the football team this year and two-a-days start pretty soon." Dean took a cautious sip of his coffee. _Nice_. "He seems to want to keep me updated on his workout schedule," he went on dryly.

Sam laughed, and Dean couldn't help his grin in response to the sound.

"Since when is football his thing? I thought he played baseball." Sam checked behind them and pulled out.

"Yeah. But he's got a good arm and the starting QB graduated this spring. School that small, most of the kids play more than one sport." Dean shrugged. "Coach Taylor talked to Luke and asked Jake to try out."

"What's Jake think? He want to play football?"

Dean laughed. "Yeah. Turns out Luke was quarterback when he was in high school and..."

The questions came easily and thoughtfully and eventually segued from Jake and sports to Dean himself and the spring he'd spent without Sam.

Dean had barely been aware of when the conversation shifted focus.

"How many of Jake's games did you go to anyway?" Sam asked with a slanting glance at Dean.

"Pretty much all of them once I..." He stopped. Cleared his throat. "Enough that I know the stats of every kid on the team," he said ruefully. He swallowed. "It was something to do that wasn't...lying in bed, I guess. Or worrying Jo," he admitted.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw his brother nod minutely.

"I bet Jake liked having you there," Sam said neutrally.

Dean shrugged. It had been a start, Dean thought. A start that hadn't involved putting a gun in his mouth or just. Stopping. Both of which would have been ends, he guessed. He looked out the window to his right.

"Hey." Sam's soft whisper brought Dean's head back around. "I'm glad you were with them Dean; that you had them," he said.

Jaw clenched tight, Dean nodded stiffly.

The silence in the car stretched out, and Dean returned his gaze to the scenery whipping by the passenger-side window.

"When's the first game of the season?" Sam asked.

When Dean turned to look at him, Sam smiled. "We should be there."

* * *

_The End_


End file.
